Less Than Ready
by kaz456
Summary: PreRENT to PostRENT. Interrelated stories within the same arc. [Ch. 8: Final chapter. Roger's turn.]
1. A Good Day

**Title:** A Good Day

**Summary: **A week in the life of Mimi.

**Notes:** Pre-RENT

**Monday**

By the time Mimi has put her lipstick on, the light that has been flickering warningly in the dressing room for the last five minutes finally dies. She can't help but think matter-of-factly that it's perfect timing, but the thought isn't enough to make her feel better. Mimi's like every other money-making individual: she hates Mondays. Just because her nine-to-five starts at night doesn't mean that she's exempt from Monday depression.

The girl next to Mimi, Cynthia, reaches over and takes her eyeliner and doesn't think to ask if it's okay until she's already putting it on, encircling her eyes with thick, thick, black, and pursing her lips in concentration.

Cynthia's twenty-six. She wears layers of make-up and winces as soon as she steps off the "stage." Her smile is coy but frozen, and each day as she walks in she sighs, looks around, and seems to be asking herself what she is doing in this place. She has been doing this for nine years.

Mimi's fear is that she will be Cynthia in seven years, and every Monday it gets harder and harder to tell herself that her fear is irrational. She started this job as a seventeen-year-old, certain that this was just a stepping stone to something greater. Now it's two years later, and Mimi feels like she has been working at the Cat Scratch Club all her life. She's ready to retire, but then again, that could just be because today is Monday and she's not on stage yet.

She hears loud music from outside, and Ted is at the door, gesturing to Mimi and Cynthia and four other girls that it's time; they need to _hurry up_ and _get out there now. _So she pulls on her kimono, the one with a hole near the wrist (it's okay because no one looks there anyway), and follows Cynthia out of the room, telling herself that she's only _literally_ following in Cynthia's footsteps.

When the spotlight is on Mimi, she can't help but smile. Even if she's in a run-down night club, there are still people out there who are cheering for her. She's the center of attention, she's dancing, and this night is about _her._ Tonight she's the star of her own world, the world of tight tops and glitter and poles and loud music and tired, tired, people (this is the only time that she doesn't count herself as one of them). When she's dancing, with everyone's eyes on her, Mimi can't help but think that maybe she's the lucky one.

When it's all over, and she's in the dressing room, pulling on normal clothes and feeling her pulse slow down as the sweat dries on her face, tiredness sets in. The high from dancing never lasts long on Mondays. Mimi lives for her highs, so maybe that's part of what makes Mondays so bad. She slips her jacket over her shoulders and stares defiantly at herself in the mirror, willing the insecurity away. Even if she has to settle for being _sexy_ instead of _beautiful,_ at least it's something. Even if she's settling for less, at least she has something to settle for.

Beside her, Cynthia rolls her eyes to the ceiling, as if to say _one more day down. _Mimi can't stand to count down the days until her death, so she looks away.

**Tuesday**

Mimi is proud of herself for doing things her own way. She arrived in New York as a young fifteen-year-old without anything. Now she has a job, clothes, food, and an apartment. No matter how she is looked at on the street when people wonder what kind of turns a girl could have taken to end up where she is, Mimi is proud of herself. She feels that she has done well with the little that she has been given.

On Tuesday, Mimi wakes up at two. She makes herself a cup of coffee and thinks about Mama.

Mimi has always been a spontaneous person. She never planned to run away from home; she woke up one day and knew that it was time to leave, that she couldn't stand things the way that they were anymore. She needed change, so she took things into her own hands and forcefully created her own opportunity.

Mimi takes her last sip of coffee and sets her mug down with a soft thud. She decides that she needs to call her family.

There's a crumpled piece of paper underneath her mattress that has the digits scrawled on it, in case she should ever forget. She hasn't forgotten, but she searches for the paper anyway, just for reassurance. When she finds it and sees how the numbers in her head match up with the numbers on the paper, she is relieved.

She dials the numbers carefully, as if they'll change if she doesn't pay close attention. The phone rings, and she holds her breath and pretends like she doesn't know why she's doing so.

"_Bueno_?" Her mother sounds tired, as always, but strong. The strongest woman Mimi's ever known.

"Hello? Mama?"

A pause, and then, "Who is this?"

"Mama, this is Mimi. _Soy Mimi_."

Her mother is quiet for a long time. The silence rings in the air. Mimi hears a sharp inhale of breath through the phone line, and then finally, her mother speaks. _"No es posible, no lo creo_."

"Mama, it's me."

Mama doesn't respond, but right now Mimi can't bear the silence. There is judgment and grief and sadness in it, and strained, strained, love. "Mama, it's Mimi. _Estoy en New York_. I…I miss you."

And because she's said that, she feels the need to envelope it in words, words, words. She talks about how she has a job where she gets to dance all the time. She talks about the way New York lives at night, wild and careless and dangerous. She talks about how she saw a girl on the street yesterday who looked like Isabella, how she's made friends, how she's eating her vegetables, and how she's grown up. She promises that she will call more often, and hopes that it isn't a lie.

She doesn't talk about the smack or the way people look at her. She doesn't ask how everyone is back home, whether anyone else has gotten hurt, and if anyone even cares that she's gone. Mimi is brave, but there are some things that she can't handle.

When she finally stops talking, the phone feels empty. She can't find anything else to say and she wishes her heart wasn't pounding.

"_Mi nena," _Mama says. Her voice is shaking. "_Mi hija._ _Quien eres?_" Mimi can't even answer; she doesn't know who she is either. "_No te conozco." _

Mimi bites her lip. She gives her mother her phone number, and before Mama can say how much she loves her, Mimi hangs up the phone. She slides down the wall and rests her head in her hands, and all she can see is her poor mother, crying because she does not know her baby anymore. All Mimi has ever done is cause her mother trouble, no matter how much she tries not to.

She gets up a minute later and pushes the conversation out of her head, because she _can't_ take it right now. She looks in the broken mirror that reflects little pieces of Mimi everywhere, and is angry to see that there are tears in her eyes.

Outside, New York is alive again. Inside, Mimi is in pieces.

She doesn't want to be broken like this, so she grabs her coat and her purse and heads outside, away from herself and into everything that will help her forget.

**Wednesday**

"Mimi!" Angel's voice is loud and cheerful, and just hearing it makes Mimi laugh. "Chica, you look _hot_!"

Mimi laughs again and spins around, proudly modeling her new coat. Angel's admiring voice cheers her on, so she poses one more time before pulling Angel into an enthusiastic hug.

Angel ushers her inside, and doesn't even ask why Mimi has made this surprise visit. She just accepts it, and Mimi follows her into the kitchen, where Angel is making rice. Mimi jumps onto a stool. She takes off her scarf, hat, coat, and gloves, and nods when Angel offers her some of the food. Angel dishes out two plates, Mimi gets cups and fills them with water from the sink, and the two of them sit at the small table and have a feast.

"How have you been?" Angel asks. Whenever Angel asks questions, she looks right at the person she's talking to, as if to try to tell them that she really cares about the answer. Mimi has never met anyone who cares as much as Angel.

Mimi tells her about the couple she saw as she was walking over. The boy whispered something into the girl's ear and she smiled and pulled him in for a kiss. Mimi watched from afar.

Angel nods and spoons some of the rice into her mouth. After she swallows she says, "Sometimes I get lonely, too."

They finish eating and talk about the ugly bags that people have been carrying lately, and Angel pulls out a sheet of paper to show Mimi her new designs. She says that she designed one of them with Mimi in mind, and Mimi squeals in excitement. It's a red dress with white designs on it, small and cute and out-of-season right now.

"I wasn't sure about the color," Angel admits. "I only made it red because it's my favorite."

Mimi says that red was Isabella's favorite color, too. Isabella, her favorite little sister, the only one who seriously looked up to her. _Oh, Isabella. _

Angel looks at her seriously. "Mimi," she says, her voice earnest in a way that only Angel's can be, "it's okay to be sad."

Mimi shakes her head and tells her that no, it's not, not about things that you can't change.

They talk about how long Mimi's hair is getting. Angel drums a new beat on the table that makes Mimi get up and dance, and the two of them sing, each making up stanzas until they're both breathless and laughing.

Finally, Mimi looks at the time and realizes that she needs to go to work. Angel's face crinkles up and she frowns. Mimi knows that Angel doesn't approve of her job, but she's dancing, and at least the club is no-contact, and more importantly, it helps pay for both of their AZT.

They hug again after Mimi slips her coat back on, winds her scarf around her neck, jams her hat onto her head, and pulls her gloves on (left hand first, then right). The worry seeps back into Angel's face as Mimi grabs her purse, and she takes hold of Mimi's arm when she says, "Stay out of trouble, chica, okay?"

This is Angel-code for _please, no more smack._ Mimi pulls her arm away from Angel's and forces a laugh as she reminds Angel that trouble finds her.

Angel's still frowning when Mimi clacks out of the door, so as Mimi prances down the stairs, she sings _De Colores _as loudly as she can, and does dramatic hand gestures to accompany the song. It's only when she hears Angel laughing behind her that she can smile, too.

**Thursday**

Every other Thursday Mimi gets paid, so Thursday is her day to take care of business. In the grocery store, she feels like any other person. She pushes her cart and looks for sales. She doesn't mind how her cart is filled only with generic brands; at least it's filled with something.

Her favorite place in the store is the bakery; she loves the smell of fresh bread baking and the sight of warm doughnuts and sweet cakes. She hovers around them for a moment before turning away, towards the fruits. The oranges are on sale, six for a dollar, and they're healthier than cake, too.

Before she goes to the checkout, Mimi swings by the bakery and grabs a loaf of fresh bread. It's worth it, she decides. Besides, she just won't buy cigarettes. She needs to cut down, anyway, and she's sure she can find a pack somewhere in her apartment if she looks hard enough.

The cashier at the check-out counter checks Mimi out, in more ways than one. She thinks that she probably shouldn't be as offended by his roaming eyes as she is, but right now she's not even _working_, so he has no reason, and furthermore no _right,_ to look at her like that.

When he opens his mouth to ask for her number, Mimi cuts him off and states loudly that she'd like plastic bags, not paper. The proclamation shuts him up, and Mimi walks away proudly, a smile tugging at her lips.

Once outside, she catches a glimpse of her dealer. The two of them make eye contact, and she strolls down the sidewalk briskly, as if she has somewhere to be. She "accidentally" drops one of her bags, and as he bends down to help her pick it up, they quickly exchange money for drugs. Mimi straightens up, tells him thank you for helping her, and heads home. She feels slightly guilty when she thinks of Angel, so she does her best to ignore the feeling. She's too far in now to stop, anyway. It's part of life; she needs it.

When she gets home, she climbs up the stairs and unlocks the door to her apartment. She takes off her boots and puts the groceries away. Then she sits down on the chair, the only one in the apartment, and pulls out the bills that need to be paid. She pulls out the money that she has been setting aside in the box under her bed and carefully counts it. She pays each and is satisfied when she thinks about how she won't need to pay for another three months, hopefully.

When she's done, she realizes just how tired she is. On Thursdays she doesn't work, so she's allowed to feel tired. She makes herself a cup of hot cocoa, wraps herself in a blanket, and stares out the open window. She marvels at how old she feels until she remembers that she's drinking cocoa, and then she laughs at herself.

After she finishes her drink, she rinses her mug off, sets it in the sink, and curls up on her mattress. New York runs and runs and runs, and usually Mimi's running alongside it, but even she runs out of energy at times. Mimi lets New York dance the night away for her, and she closes her eyes and goes to sleep. Somewhere, she hears music, faint and low and true, and she wonders if it is in her head.

**Friday**

The glitter is seeping into her eyes, and the hair trailing down her back only makes her feel hot. She's not on stage tonight; she's hanging in a cage, grinding and twisting and ignoring the way her legs hurt after she's been in here for two hours.

The cage is finally lowered and opened, and as Mimi slips out Melinda slides in. They don't speak to one another; there is too much to do. Fridays and Saturdays are crazy. There's hardly ever time to talk to each other.

Before she can retreat to the dressing room to wipe the sweat off her forehead, she's been requested for a lap dance. She smiles brazenly at her client. He's a repeat customer.

"Another business trip?" She asks lowly, when she's close enough for him to hear her.

His eyes don't leave hers, but he nods. He told her last time how he comes in whenever he's in town for a business trip. His wife doesn't know. Mimi feels sorry for her, and she wishes that he hadn't told her. Now every time she does a dance for him, she thinks of his poor wife, sitting at home, missing him.

"No touching," She warns him, as she comes even closer. His breath hitches and he nods quickly.

While she dances she thinks of rain, cool and clear. He moans and she thinks of books, and of how many there are in the world that she hasn't read. He finally exhales, and she thinks of what she would name a cat if she had one. When the music ends, he mutters, "You're beautiful," and she knows that this is not beauty. This is not the beautiful that she wants to be.

It's over quickly. He tips her generously, and she's gone before he can say anything else. Table Three has requested a table dance, and there's no time to keep anyone waiting.

When it's all over, and Mimi's in the dressing room with aching muscles, Tiffany, one of the new girls, looks at her wistfully.

"You're so good at this," She says. "You always look like you're having so much fun."

Mimi doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't know how to explain that it's only fun when she's in the spotlight, or when she's not thinking about it, or when she's showered and she has the money in her hands. The rest of the time it's work, and it's messy and dirty and seedy and she _knows_ that. She doesn't know how to tell Tiffany that it's only fun because it has to be. She doesn't know how to say that she doesn't like to be a _stripper_; she likes to be in control, she likes to have all eyes on her, she likes to feel important, she likes to dance.

So Mimi doesn't tell Tiffany anything. She just smiles and puts her hat on, squeezes Tiffany's hand and says to have a good one. She walks out and knows that Tiffany's staring after her, confused, but what else can she do? Mimi lives for passion, and it's her only weapon against the depression of reality. She hasn't been given many breaks in life, so she makes her own and is satisfied.

**Saturday**

Mimi leaves work early on Saturday, but she doesn't tell anyone. She sneaks out silently, like a cat, and no one's any wiser. But when she's on the street, she realizes that maybe it was stupid of her to leave without changing into her normal clothes; now she's walking down the streets of New York at one o'clock in the morning, wearing only a coat over her work clothes.

She still walks with her head high. She has pride, and maybe her problem is that she has too much of it, but she won't let that stop her. It's because she has her head up that she sees the car that's following her, and that's enough to convince her to maybe walk a little faster and with her head down. She drops her hands into her pockets and walks quickly.

"Hey!" The man in the car shouts out to her, and pulls up beside her. "How much?" he asks, and gestures to her. He looks around a little nervously, in an "I'm not used to doing this" sort of way.

Mimi's still walking when she finally realizes what he's saying, what he's implying, and just like that, she gets _pissed._ She stops walking and turns around to stare at him. "I'm _not_ a whore," She tells him.

He stares at her and scoffs, looks her up and down. It's all Mimi can do not to punch him in the face (yeah, she does have a temper; so what?). She turns back around and resumes walking, nearly pounding her feet into the sidewalk with each step. When she glances back and sees that he's still following her, she flicks him off and lets out a string of curses at him, each word filled with more anger and more attitude than the last. And then she cuts through the alley and starts running, because this is New York, after all.

She's still running when she gets into her building, and as she locks her door she laughs and laughs, adrenaline still pouring through her. It was dangerous, but she can't help but admit that it was _fun_, and the man got what was coming towards him.

She takes a shower and it's not until she's about to go to sleep that a thought hits her mind, one that she can't get rid of. It's three-thirty A.M., but she picks up her phone and dials Angel's number.

When Angel answers, she apologizes for calling so early and before Angel can reassure her about how it's okay that she woke her up, she launches into the story about "a funny thing that happened." When she's done, she waits and listens to the heavy sound of Angel's breathing. When it's apparent that Angel's not going to say anything, she finally blurts out, "I'm not a whore. I'm not a slut."

With those words, Angel seems to get it. "You're not," She says, and more importantly, she sounds like she means it. It's almost enough for Mimi, so she apologizes again and hangs up after telling Angel to sleep well.

Mimi can't sleep well, though. She sits, walks around, and sits again. She drinks water, finds her smack. She gets annoyed with just how much the events of the evening (morning?) bothered her, and even more annoyed with how she needed Angel's confirmation. She sighs in frustration when she still doesn't want to sleep.

She spends the majority of the night sitting by the window. At five o'clock, a storm takes over New York. Mimi thinks that she's the only one to see it. When it passes, she wonders if it was even real.

Mimi stays up the whole night.

**Sunday**

Wide-eyed and tired-minded, Mimi walks into the church. She walks in late; the service has already started. She makes the sign of the cross as she enters, and she squeezes into a pew at the back. She didn't expect the place to be so full.

After all the masses she has attended in her childhood, she knows the right things to say. Her mouth forms the words "Thanks be to God" at the correct time. Her hand grips the cross in her pocket tightly, the cross that she found this morning. Her mind is on the stained glass windows, on the image of _La Virgen_, the Holy Mother. She wonders what it would be like to be so beautiful, so revered. _La Señora_ looks serene, with her head lifted towards Heaven.

Mimi thinks that things must get better than this.

She doesn't take the Eucharist, but she allows herself to be blessed by the priest. He blesses her, his mouth wrapping around words that Mimi does not hear, echoing rejection that does not come.

She leaves while everyone is offering one another a sign of peace, but she gives a smile to the young boy beside her who reaches over to shake her hand. She leaves the church, but while she's still on the steps, she turns around and says a prayer. She prays for her Mama, the woman who carries the weight of the world. She prays for Isabella, the smart little sister who is missing her role model. She prays for Carlos, the brother who was shot before he could even really live. She prays for Angel, who touches the world with the care that she spreads and forgets that she needs to be cared for, too. She prays for Tiffany, and Cynthia, and the priest, and her other siblings, and the boy who sat next to her in church. She prays for anyone who needs it.

She prays for herself, for the past that she continually pushes away, the present that she marches through, day by day, and the future that is coming, that she is creating, that must be better than guilt.

When she opens her eyes, she feels better. She realizes that she's smiling. In gratitude she nods to the church, and then blows a kiss to it and laughs into the December cold. She spins and twirls outside the church, hair and scarf flying out around her. The few people near her—a teenager with his backpack, a dad with his two kids, and a woman with her briefcase—watch and seem to smile along with her.

The smile stays on her face the whole way home, and when she gets inside she feels closed-in, so she goes out to stand on the fire escape. She closes her eyes and breathes in the polluted air of New York, the city of life and love and danger and shame and fear and loss and determination and strength. The city of Mimi. It swallows people up, it eats their dreams, but here, Mimi thrives. Home is what you make of it.

She hears music that sounds familiar, and this time she's sure that it's not just in her head. She opens her eyes and leans over on the fire escape, straining to hear more. It's coming from above her. She leans over further, peers up, and sees a man above her. His eyes are closed, and he's playing a song on his guitar—the same song she heard earlier in the week—a song of heartache. A song for the broken, for the scared, for the lonely. Mimi understands the song. She understands him.

He's cute, she notices, and something about him speaks to her. He's like Mimi—he needs redemption, too.

His notes finally die and it sounds like his spirit's dying as well. Mimi's breath catches in her throat as she watches him look out into the eyes of New York. He isn't satisfied with what he sees. He shakes his head and walks back inside.

Mimi closes her eyes quickly and adds in a prayer for her Mystery Boy. She wants to know him, and she will, someday. She watches the spot where he was sitting for another moment, and then she climbs back into the apartment. She leaves the window open.

Everyone is looking for something, Mimi realizes, as she makes herself a cup of coffee. She sits on the table, and thinks about her Mystery Boy, and wonders if life has dealt him a difficult hand, too. Even so, life is what you make of it. She laughs out loud. She has her coffee. She has her smack. She has her AZT. She has her best friend. She has her job. She has her life. She takes a sip of coffee, and gathers up the strength to continue for another week, another month, another lifetime.

She listens carefully, and hears the music that Mystery Boy was playing filtering in through her window. She smiles, and decides that it's going to be a good day.


	2. The Benefit of Good Company

**Title:** The Benefit of Good Company

**Summary: **_This_ is what Joanne needs.

**Notes:** Pre-RENT. (Also, this was a very strange pairing for me to write that required me to definitely step outside my own thoughts for a while, so I'd appreciate you all telling me what you think about it). Also, thanks missxflawless and LifeIsTooQuick.

* * *

"This has been the worst day of my life."

That's what the answering machine has to say to Joanne when she pushes the play button. As if having a long day of work at her new firm which consisted more of being judged and prejudiced against than of, say, _doing her job,_ wasn't enough. No, what she really needs right now is the long-suffering sigh that she hears on the machine, accompanied by a deep breath that indicates that the caller still had more to say.

"I _mean_ it, Joanne. You can't even imagine how hard things are for me. Not _all_ of us have little _careers _that we can run to whenever we're feeling down. Some of us actually like having to rely on _people _when we're having a crisis Not that I'm trying to say that I don't _love_ talking to your answering machine. It's just that I think I'd rather talk to you, if you can fit me into your busy schedule."

Joanne sighs. Her finger hovers over the delete button and she considers it, knowing already what she will do.

"Anyway, don't bother calling me back. I feel _horrible_. I'm going out tonight. If you get this message before, like, seven, maybe you can meet me at that club—you know, that one that I really like. If not, then I'll call you again tomorrow." Another long sigh. "I'm getting really close to your phone, Joanne. At least _it's_ always there for me." Joanne presses the pause button before she can hear any other messages.

Joanne checks her watch. It's seven o'clock, on the dot. But what the hell is "that club" supposed to tell her? This is not what she needs right now. She's not sure what she needs right now, but she is certain that it is not this.

Joanne heads into her bedroom. As she peels off her pinstriped office pantsuit, she thinks about what she does need. How about a job where she can actually see natural light, instead of leaving before the sunrise and coming home after the sunset? Or mail that consists of more than just bills? Or telephone calls that will leave her pleased, instead of exasperated and annoyed?

_No,_ Joanne tells herself sarcastically. _That is too much to ask for. _Lately, it has felt like everything is too much to ask for. But no, that's not true. Joanne has always been a blunt person, especially to herself. So she knows what the problem is.

The problem is that she is frustrated. The problem is that she can't pinpoint exactly what it is that is frustrating her, but she thinks that it starts and ends with life in general.

Joanne heads back into the kitchen, where the phone is situated. She opens her refrigerator and reaches in to grab a bottle of water before changing her mind and grabbing a cold beer. At this point, she's desperate for help (though she would never admit that).

With a tired sigh, she turns to resume playing the messages on her answering machine.

"Hey, Kitten. We haven't heard from you in awhile; your mother's not too happy about that. How have you been? Did you get the job with that firm? Look, Jo, your mom and I were talking, and we were thinking that it might be reasonable for you to move a little closer to home—and it's not just because we're always wondering where you are. Call us back so we can talk."

The obligatory once-a-month "please come back home" message. Joanne makes a sound of disgust deep in her throat and pulls out a bottle opener from her drawer. She chugs half the beer down in her first sip and pulls herself up onto the counter next to the phone.

She won't be calling them back anytime soon. She loves them, very much, but she doesn't want to hear a persuasive list of reasons why she should move closer to Connecticut. Although this time, it's because she thinks that she just might be persuaded.

And dear Lord, is that really should a horrible thing? All her life, Joanne Jefferson has opted to work her way through tough situations. She always chooses the difficult path; her life is the way it is because of her penchant for choosing the option that means more work and more sacrifice. She skipped a grade when she was eight, even though it meant leaving behind her friends, and not because she was really any smarter than anyone—just because she wanted to prove that she _could._ When she was eighteen, she chose to go to Harvard for both undergraduate and graduate school, even though it meant leaving home for the first time in her life. And on that same note, she had insisted upon paying her parents back for all of her post-high school education. And she had consciously chosen to go into a profession where being a minority (black, female, lesbian; take your pick) would certainly work out in most situations against her, and on top of that she had just moved to New York, where she knew absolutely no one.

So why shouldn't she, for once, for the first time _ever_, throw in the metaphorical towel and take the easy way out? Maybe she's tired of fighting. She's ready to lay her head down and _rest._

Oblivious to Joanne's internal ranting, the messages on the phone continue.

"Um, hi, I hope this is Joanne …I'm Paul, I'm friends with Lydia, and she told me that you might be interested in going out on a date or—"

She doesn't even bother to listen to the rest of the message. With a glare at the machine, she stops the rambling voice and channels all her anger on Lydia, her "friend" who still cannot resist giving Joanne's number to every person she meets, male or female, despite the fact that Joanne is a lesbian. Lydia claims that Joanne is "too stressed out" and "needs to have some fun."

"What I need is for you to leave me alone!" Joanne shouts at the machine before she even realizes the words are out of her mouth.

And it doesn't even matter, anyway, because there's no one there to hear her yell at inanimate objects. She's in this one all on her own, as usual. This is how it goes. Joanne is supposed to know how to clean up her own messes. She's an accomplished individual; she's supposed to understand herself.

_It's just one of those days, _she reassures herself. But it's not; it's one of those weeks, one of those months.

And what was it that Rick had said at work today? Oh, that was right. He had looked at her and said, "Joanne. If you're going to do a job, do it right. You're lucky you're even here in the first place, don't screw up our company in the process."

Even thinking about the comment pisses Joanne off. He had somehow managed to insinuate, all in a mock-friendly tone, that Joanne's only purpose in the company lay in the words "affirmative action." And what angered her, even more than the fact that she hadn't spoken up in her own defense, was that what he said _wasn't true._

Maybe Lydia is right, for once in her life, though. Maybe what Joanne does need is to have a good time. Joanne mentally cringes at the thought. Is she really going to go through with this? She's a lesbian, so this is inherently insensitive…but _damn,_ it would be nice to spend an evening with someone who would at least somewhat care.

The phone rings.

Joanne wants to pick it up, she really does. She hates those people who just let it ring and ring, or purposely wait for the machine to get it. But right now she's feeling a little wary about talking to just anyone, even if that's all she really wants.

The machine beeps, and a familiar voice fills the air.

"Joanne. I know you're there. Pick up the phone. Do you hear me? Pick. Up. The. Phone." There is a long pause, and then that oh-so-recognizable sigh. "For the love of God, Joanne! I thought we were…I don't know, _something. _At least _friends. _Friends don't ignore each other when one of them is going through a crisis. Look, Joanne, I just…you know what? Forget it." There is the _click_ of a phone hanging up.

Joanne stares at the phone for a minute before nodding. Yes, she's doing this. She replays Paul's message, copies down his number, and lifts her fingers to dial.

An hour and a half later, she's not sure if it was such a good idea.

Paul's a nice enough guy. He's even somewhat good-looking—for a man, that is. And Joanne dressed up a little too, forcing herself into one of the few dresses she owns. Yes, she still looks sensible, but it's at least an attractive brand of sensible. The ambience in the restaurant is decent, as well. Low lights and the quintessential quiet music in the background along with the clink of forks against plates and the gentle murmurs of the highs and lows of conversations.

It's just that maybe this whole thing isn't what she wanted. Yes, Joanne desperately wants company, but she's starting to realize that it's more than just _anyone's_ company that she wants.

"So." Paul's voice interrupts Joanne's thoughts, though it sounds as if he's had to repeat himself several times. He has a comforting sort of voice, she notes. In her years as a lawyer, Joanne has gotten very good at reading people. Paul is a usually confident man who has the kind of voice and smile that makes you feel like telling him everything. Well, unless you're Joanne.

"So," Paul says again, and clears his throat. At this moment, Paul does not possess much, if any, of his confidence. He scratches his head. "What was it that you said you do, again?"

"Lawyer," Joanne responds promptly. She reaches for her glass to take a sip of water and suddenly remembers her manners. "I'm sorry, I don't remember if I've asked. What do you do?"

Paul smiles a little. "You didn't ask. But I'm a therapist."

"Oh," Joanne manages. A lawyer and a therapist, sitting together at the most uncomfortable dinner Joanne has ever been to. She takes another sip of water and her thoughts drift again, this time to the messages on her answering machine. By the time she gets home, will there be another message left, this time declaring that Joanne will never be spoken to again? She shakes her head a little. _I wouldn't be surprised. _

"You agree?" Paul is asking. It's only then that Joanne realizes that he's been talking this entire time. Following that comes the realization that Paul has spent the majority of this dinner talking, and that Joanne has spent the majority of the time not paying attention. And following _that_ comes the realization that if this is really the most uncomfortable date she's ever been on, then perhaps the blame falls on the shoulders of Joanne for not even attempting to make an effort.

She owes it to Paul to apologize. She sets down her glass and sighs. "Look," She begins. "I'm sorry. But I'm not…I can't…I shouldn't even be wasting your time. It was a mistake for me to even come here. Let me just leave before this gets any worse." She gets up to go, but is stopped by Paul.

He looks relieved. "No, stay! You have no idea just how glad I am that you said that. I'm just getting over a difficult break-up myself, and I am _really_ not ready to start any sort of relationship. In fact, I basically invited you here because I was, uh, well…lonely," He admits.

_That_ sounds familiar. Slowly, Joanne sits down. "Me too," She confesses, before she realizes the words are out of her mouth.

It's amazing how much the atmosphere between them changes after their short confessions. As soon as Joanne scoots her chair back in, she finds it much easier to pay attention to Paul.

"Another thing," Paul says, in a tone that seems to imply _since-I-said-that-I-might-as-well-say-this_, "This whole evening I've been talking, and to be honest, I'm much more of a listener. And…because I knew you weren't listening, I've spent the entire duration of this date talking about…my ex-girlfriend." He winces slightly, as if expecting Joanne to cast a harsh judgment upon him.

Joanne can only give a dry laugh. "I'm a lesbian."

Paul blinks. "Well," he says, "I guess you win." But he smiles in a way that makes Joanne smile too, and soon they're both laughing in one of those uncommon bonding-with-strangers sort of ways.

"So," Paul says, but this time it's in a good manner, not an awkward one. "Tell me about yourself."

Though they've shared a moment of commiseration, Joanne remembers that Paul doesn't know her. "Not much to say," She says bluntly. "I'm not a big fan of talking about myself, anyway."

"Hey, I'm a therapist. I'm not going to tell anyone anything; I'm used to confidentiality agreements. Besides," he adds, "I'm sure I could get something out of you."

"I'm a lawyer, remember?" Joanne shoots back. "I know how to get what I want."

"Touché."

Joanne tilts her head in self-satisfied acknowledgement, and their food arrives. With the promise of good-smelling food and a much more bearable date sitting across from her, Joanne thinks that maybe the evening won't be such a disaster after all.

As Paul begins to eat, he focuses on her again. "Really, though," He says, and waits for her to swallow her linguini. "The only reason I ask is because I know that earlier, when we weren't really communicating, I was thinking about my ex-girlfriend. So it just stands to reason that you might be thinking of someone similar. And, hey, there's no better person to talk about your problems with than someone who you'll never see again, right?" He punctuates his last word with a bite of fresh trout. "Mmm," he says. "Food's good."

Joanne nods in agreement and thinks quickly about what he said. He just might be right. "So, essentially, you're offering me a free counseling session."

"Call it what you like," Paul says, the barest of grins threatening the earnest expression on his face.

Joanne thinks back to the messages on her machines, and then further back to how frustrated she's been at work lately. Is it possible that her work frustrations are related to the problems in her personal life? And is it possible that when she's declared that she wants company, what she really means is someone who she can talk to?

It's possible. It's very possible.

Joanne sighs, and Paul looks up from his food. "Good food," He repeats, as if he thinks that's what she's going to talk about. Joanne gives him one of her patented cut-the-crap looks, and he immediately straightens up.

Joanne takes a deep breath and a stab at her pasta. "Her name," she begins, "is Maureen."

By the time she gets home, Joanne is tired but strangely satisfied. Talking to Paul had somehow cleared things up in her life. She feels…good. It's not a feeling she usually has, but she thinks that maybe she likes it.

As she approaches her apartment, though, she feels the feeling start to slip away. It's replaced by a nervous sensation. In front of her apartment door stands drama-annoyance-exasperation-sexiness-flirtiness-beauty-anger-impatience-exaggeraton-power. There stands _Maureen._

"Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting here?" Maureen asks. She glares at Joanne, big brown eyes turned on full blast.

"No. Although I have a feeling that you're about to tell me."

"Where were you?!" Maureen explodes. "I've been here for an _hour_!"

Joanne gathers herself up to her full height and gives Maureen a _look_. She's not very tall, but she knows she can be intimidating. Somehow, it seems that Maureen has never noticed this quality about her. "I was out," She says firmly, "on a date."

A hurt expression flashes across Maureen's face. It's quickly covered up, though, and Maureen's anger fades instantly. "Oh," She says.

"How's Matt?" Joanne asks frankly, as if to drive her point in even more. They've never talked about these feelings between them, but nothing's going to work out if Maureen can't bring herself to lose her security blanket.

"His name is Mark," Maureen tells her quietly.

"Sorry."

"It's fine. He's fine." Maureen crosses her arms, bites her lip, and doesn't offer any more information.

Joanne waits a beat and nods. She steps up to her door, unlocks it, and isn't surprised when Maureen follows her in. Joanne turns to lock the door, and when she turns back around there's Maureen, standing in front of her.

There's _Maureen_, standing in front of her.

And there's Maureen, standing _right_ in front of her, leaning in, and there are Maureen's lips, soft against hers, and Maureen's hair, smelling like vanilla, and when they break apart, there are Maureen's eyes, unnaturally bright.

Maureen's a walking exclamation point. The only thing gentle about her, Joanne has discovered, are her kisses.

"I want this," Maureen says.

"I do too."

"But I can't break things off with Mark yet. He needs me." Joanne can see how someone could need Maureen. Maybe because she seems to be in that place at this very instant.

As if reading her thoughts, Maureen grins widely. "But, I mean, how could he not, right?"

Joanne's not sure whether to laugh or to glare at Maureen. Is this really what she wants to get herself wrapped up in? Being with Maureen means excitement, and exuberance, but maybe more of both than she can handle. Maureen will be a handful, and stressful on top of it. She will lie and refuse to acknowledge what she doesn't want to hear. She'll laugh when Joanne's mad, and she'll get angry at insignificant things. And goodness, will there ever be a time when Maureen _isn't_ acting?

Joanne thinks back to just a few moments ago. _Yes,_ she thinks, _there will be. _

Joanne doesn't bother to answer Maureen. She just grabs her hand and pulls her down beside her on the couch. She thinks about the girl she saw the other day, a young woman who was just spinning around, laughing, in the middle of life. A relationship with Maureen—it's the difference between admiring that girl and actually dancing with her. She thinks that it just might be worth it.

But first, there's something she has to know.

"What was your crisis?" She asks. "The one you were talking about on the answering machine?"

Maureen tilts her head back and laughs, and Joanne smiles just watching her. "Oh, that," She says. She slips her fingers in between Joanne's and turns to look at her. "It was just that I thought I might be in love with you."


	3. Always

**Title:** Always

**Summary: **Angel has to come to terms with just what exactly her death will mean.

**Notes:** During-RENT, right before/around _Contact_ in the musical.

* * *

**_[The following letter was found by Thomas B. Collins on his desk on the night of October 31__st__, 1996. It remained unopened until the morning of December 25__th__, 1996. _**

_July 3__rd__, 1996_

_Dear Collins,_

_First things first: I AM SO SO SO IN LOVE WITH YOU._

_Moving on. Honey, I know that you're opposed to all things cliché, and I guess a "letter from the dead" counts as cliché. But you're going to have to forgive me, sweetie, because I have to write this. I could say it, but I know that the only time you need to hear this is when I'm not physically with you to say it. _

The moment Angel wakes up, she knows what day it is.

Not the day, as in what day of the week (Tuesday) or what day of the month (June 27th). It's the day, as in _the day_, as in the day that she's been dreading and yet expecting ever since that other day, the one that defined the rest of her life.

Angel thinks, as she stretches out in her bed, about the last six months. They've been, in her opinion, the best six months of her life. She's been accepted into a community of some of the most amazing people that she's ever known, and in addition to that, there's Collins.

Collins, who's at work right now, cheerfully "educating the degenerates," as he always explains to her when they sit down to eat dinner. He can whine and gripe about it as much as he likes, but they both know that he enjoys it. Collins, Angel knows, is an affecter (her own term for it), and he does best when he feels that he's affecting people. Collins is brilliant, and funny, and has the widest heart Angel has ever seen. It matches his wide smile and his wide personality. Collins is beautiful, inside and out, and Angel firmly stops herself from gushing even more about him. If she continues like this, she'll never get out of bed.

Without thoughts of Collins distracting her, she finds it easy to climb out of bed and get dressed. She's wearing red, orange, and yellow today—bright colors, because she needs all the brightness that she can get.

She's not very hungry, so she decides against stopping in the kitchen and instead heads straight out the door. Outside, it's hot in a way that only New York can be, with people still everywhere, brushing against each other and into each other.

Angel wonders what life would be like if you learned a little bit about someone every time you touched them. Imagine—even by pushing someone down, you might discover something that connects them to you. It'd be strange, she concludes to herself. Strange, but nice.

She knows the address of her location, so she takes her time in getting there. As she walks, she observes the people around her. In front of her is a family of tourists. The smallest little boy in the family seems to notice her gaze, and he turns around and stares at her. Angel waves back good-naturedly, and he continues to stare, wide-mouthed. She winks at him as his family turns a corner and he disappears from site.

Sometimes she forgets how she looks to people who don't know her. Drag queens are typically easily noticeable and often gawked at, but most of the time Angel doesn't realize it. In fact, most stares don't even register with her. This part of her is so much a part of her that at times, she finds herself wondering what people are staring at. She's just being herself. Like the girl who pierces her nose because she really, really wants to, or the boy who dresses all in green because it's his favorite color. Everyone's just trying to be themselves, and Angel thinks that most of the time, she's succeeding at it.

And when she's not succeeding…well, those are the days when she gets down, when she wants to just disappear and be done with it. Everyone has bad days, but Angel fears her extremely bad ones. They scare her, even to think about.

But people make things better, Angel thinks. She decides that she's certain of it when she sees a couple arguing and exchanging small kisses interchangeably. She nearly laughs but instead settles on a hidden smile. _Enjoy it_, she wants to tell them. _Enjoy this life before it's too late. _

But it's not too late right now, and that's what matters.

_I have a confession to make. I used to see a psychiatrist. Her name was Dr. Lee, and I saw her in my first few weeks after I moved to New York. I was lonely and scared and ready to give up. My parents had just kicked me out, and the only thing they would pay for were psychiatrist sessions so that I could "come back to my senses". I decided to take advantage of it. I'm glad I did, because I learned something about caring about myself and caring about others._

_I know that you're surprised, I bet that you never expected it. You thought I was the most stable person you knew. And I let you, because you needed to lean on me, just like I needed to lean on you. _

Angel walks up the steps of the doctor's office. It's a seemingly insignificant little building, mashed between a grocery store and a pharmacy, but Angel knows better than to let outward appearances deceive her. She tells the secretary that she's here for her ten o'clock appointment, and the secretary replies that the doctor will see her in a moment.

As she waits, Angel flips through the _Vogue _that was lying out on the coffee table and thinks about how different things felt when she used to come here regularly. Now she feels superior to her old self. She's grown a lot, these past few months, even if she is only twenty-two.

She doesn't have much time to analyze herself before Dr. Lee appears at the door, beckoning Angel with a hand. Angel follows Dr. Lee down a short hallway to her office, and sits down on the couch across from Dr. Lee's death.

Dr. Lee gives her a curious look. "Angel. We haven't talked in…" she glances at the chart on her desk. "About eight months. How have you been?"

Angel doesn't tell her that about eight months ago, she lost the job she had, the only one where she actually had some sort of insurance that covered just about everything for these psychiatric visits. Instead she smiles. "I've been great."

Dr. Lee looks at the chart once more. "Let's see…I know that I didn't put you on any pills, and you haven't been coming to therapy..." She looks at Angel over the top of her glasses. "Unless you've been seeing a therapist?"

Angel shakes her head. "No. I haven't been seeing a therapist. I just…I put to use some of the stuff you taught me, some of the things you said."

"Oh." Dr. Lee looks and sounds surprised. She takes off her glasses and peers at Angel. "So, why here, why now? What's going on?"

Angel grins again. "I met someone. He's nice and sweet and cute and…I love him." She has no problem admitting it. "But that's not why I came," She adds in quickly before Dr. Lee can respond.

_Last night you were so happy. You have no idea how cute you are when you're all excited about a paper or something your students wrote. You know, something that proves that they were actually listening to you_.

Dr. Lee waits patiently for Angel to continue. She had always been so patient, but maybe it was because she had needed to be. Angel takes a breath and does. "I mainly came to say…thank you. If not for you, then I don't think I would have made it to where I am today. No, I _know_ I wouldn't have made it. Thank you."

Dr. Lee smiles at Angel, quite warmly. Again, before she can speak, Angel cuts her off again.

"That was all I wanted to say," she says quickly. "I just wanted to make sure that I said it before I didn't have any more time."

This is her first stop. Angel had thought that she would have to explain. She had expected a look of confusion or some sort of questioning. In short, she had been prepared for a surprised reaction in response to her statement.

But, as she sits in the office, she remembers how Dr. Lee is a…well, a doctor (sometimes it feels like she's not one, but in a good way). Dr. Lee knows about the HIV-turned-AIDS, can read the symptoms. Strangely enough, Dr. Lee, out of all people, understands.

"It was a pleasure," Dr. Lee says, and it's one of the few times that Angel has ever heard those words and felt like the person saying them actually means it.

_One down,_ Angel thinks as she walks out of the building. One down, and it hadn't been too bad after all. Then again, it wasn't as though Dr. Lee had been a close friend of hers or anything. Just her psychiatrist, and though she had admittedly helped to save Angel's life and restore both her self-confidence and her will to live, they hadn't been close on any sort of personal level beyond doctor and patient. So maybe it made sense that talking to her hadn't been too hard.

Still, that was one down, and only two left to go. Angel decides that she has to find some solace in that fact.

Angel is often searching for solace. It feels like she's always looking for happiness in the small things. Everyone seems to have a hard time believing that Angel gets down so often. But she's always thought that it was something that she should just accept, that just as easily as she can laugh, she can cry. It's just that lately, for the last six months, she's had more things to laugh about than to cry about.

It's a choice, though. She always gets to make the decision in the end. Laugh or cry? Happiness or sorrow? Because they're just two sides of the same coin. Collins sometimes talks about how comedy and tragedy are closely related; maybe it's something like that. Maybe everything's within an arm's reach, and it's just reaching out that's the hard thing.

_Damn, Collins, my hands are shaking. You're at work, and you have no idea that I'm going to take away all our happiness at dinner. How can it all be over when we don't even know each other? We haven't even been together for a year. I don't even know your mom's name or where you grew up or anything_.

Angel's startled to realize that she's been lost in her thoughts— somehow, she's ended up at the subway station. This doesn't happen to Angel often; she usually always has at least one foot in reality. Things have changed suddenly, and it can all be traced to that telephone call last night.

The subway ride isn't too long, only about ten or fifteen minutes. Angel spends the time looking at the fabric on her skirt. She remembers deciding which color she would use, when she was sewing it. She wishes she would have chosen the blue instead of the orange. Collins looks good in blue, and looking at the color would have reminded her of him.

Not that she ever really needs reminding. (Though today, Angel thinks that no reminding could ever be too much, because it'll all be over too soon.)

She gets up at her stop, slips out, climbs up, and finds herself back in the New York heat. It's just one block until her next destination. One block—how many steps? How many breaths of air, how many blinks? How many minutes? And then she's there, directly in front of the house. She pulls out the sheet of paper in her pocket to be sure that it matches up with the address, though she already knows that it does.

She doesn't let herself stop to think about it, just walks up and knocks on the door.

An elderly man answers the door. His entire demeanor exudes tiredness. He slumps against the doorframe, cane beside him, and waits for her to speak, but it's as if he's looking past her.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Lahmer," Angel says.

He inhales sharply, and just like that, Angel knows the answer to the question that she hadn't even thought of asking. Angel looks at him and sees Collins reflected back at her. It's Collins leaning against the doorway, gathering up the strength to say it again, to repeat the haunting words. But he says it, this man, just like Collins will say it, and the double image hits Angel twice as hard, and she's not sure how she's still standing by the time he speaks.

_I'm terrified, Collins. I don't want to die. I don't want the pain. I don't want to leave anything behind. But I've already gotten used to the idea. I'm scared for you. This sounds horrible, but it's so true: death is easy for the person dying. A little hurt, and I'm gone. But it's worse for those left behind. And I know you, Collins. I know that you shielded your heart for years before you met me, and I know you'll do it again. You'll go looking for yourself all over and you'll really be trying to forget. Don't do it. That's an order. Grieve, mourn, then keep on living. _

He gives her the directions, but she opts not to go there. It sounds morbid, but she knows that she doesn't want to spend any more time in the graveyard than she has to.

So instead she goes to the park (Tompkins), the place where she met Mrs. Lahmer. She sits on one of the park benches and remembers.

She remembers how she came into New York City on the eve of her 20th birthday, marveling at how she was no longer a teenager, though she felt like it. She remembers how she sat on this particular park bench, overwhelmed and scared. She remembers how Mrs. Lahmer had stopped to ask her if she was all right.

There was so much held in that gesture. And Angel had been struck by her kindness and by the unbelievable fact that she _cared._

They had talked for an hour, and Angel, sitting in her baggy jeans and T-shirt, had found herself confessing things about herself (about how she was scared and alone and HIV-positive and a girl). Angel had cried, feeling like an idiot, but this woman just patted her back, comforting her.

Mrs. Lahmer hadn't been a psychiatrist. She was just an elderly woman who had time to listen. But she had handed Angel a sheet of paper with her address on it, "in case you ever need to talk to me again." And as Mrs. Lahmer walked away, Angel was struck by the love that Mrs. Lahmer had enveloped her in, and struck by just how much she wanted to be like that.

So no, Mrs. Lahmer hadn't done much. She hadn't done much but change the way that Angel handled her relationships with other people. She hadn't done much but change the way that Angel lived her life.

And no, Angel hadn't wanted to tell her much. She hadn't wanted to tell her much except a simple thanks for showing her how to love. She hadn't wanted to tell her anything other than, "_I'm dying, and I'm only okay with it because you helped teach me how to live."_

And now that Mrs. Lahmer's not there, Angel doesn't feel complete. All she'd wanted to do was spend today saying the things that needed to be said. But she hadn't been able to.

Angel reaches into her bag, pulls out her red pen and her little notebook (full of fashion designs that will never be finished). She purses her lips and begins to write.

_Remember what I said in the beginning of this letter? I needed a psychiatrist. You always thought I had everything handled, but I didn't. But if I hadn't, then maybe I wouldn't have met you. I don't know. I just want you to know that it's okay to be screwed up. I want you to stay with the people who can help you and I want you to live for many many many more happy years. _

"You look tired," Collins says. It's night, and they're sitting down to eat dinner. He's talked since he came home about something that happened at work, and for the first time, Angel hasn't been listening.

_I love you, Collins. I love you. I love you. I love you! I'm running out of time, and I want to make sure you know that. I feel like we haven't had enough time together. I wish we could have had more. There's never been enough time…I hope we made the best of it._

"You okay?" Collins asks. Concern is written all over his face.

She was okay. Earlier today, she had been fine. But that was before. That was before it hit her how death was more about the people left behind than about the people dying. That was before she'd found herself confronted with the trauma of dealing with not having said enough to someone who deserved it. That was before she'd realized just what she would be doing to Collins. She can stare death in the face, but she just can't let herself think of not truly _living,_ let alone being the cause of someone else not living.

_Oh, my God, I'm so scared. I hope we make it through this. It has to have been worth it in the end. _

"Collins," she says, and before she's even put her fork down, she knows that Collins knows, and that from hereon out, things are changed forever. It's not about reaching out for happiness or sorrow; it's about choosing to shield yourself from both. It's about the breakdown that will come for Collins, the breakdown that Angel must initiate.

_I need to get home before you arrive. I can't let you see this. If I don't finish it now, I'll finish it later, when I feel better. I'm so sorry if this doesn't flow, I'm sorry if some of this doesn't make sense. I LOVE YOU._

"Collins, baby," she begins again, armed with the knowledge that it's not about her, it's not about fulfilling her list. It's about the people who she's leaving behind. "Yesterday the clinic called."

_Love Always,_

Angel


	4. Fear No More

**Title:** Fear No More

**Summary: **When everything is wrong, Collins finds himself at a loss for anything.

**Notes:** During-RENT; takes place a week or so before Collins comes back for the second time.

* * *

Two letters. Two letters lying on his desk, crinkled and waiting.

Collins stared at both of them. He focused on the one on the left, then quickly switched his gaze to the one on the right. Back and forth. Back. Forth.

He stopped and shook his head out. This was getting ridiculous. He'd already opened both of them; what did it matter which one he looked at now?

Even so, he carefully picked up the one on the left.

_Col— _it read. He made a face at the nickname and continued reading.

_Col— Roger's still in Santa Fe. Don't know where Mimi is. Would have called, but I'm sick of having to go through the entire M.I.T. directory system. For the love of God, get your own phone line or something. _

_We miss you LOTS. Come back to us! It's almost Christmas, too. _

_Don't work yourself up. _

_Love love love,_

_Maureen_

He actually hadn't been surprised to receive the letter. Maureen was a typical enjoyer of all sorts of overly-sentimental and halfway-jocular displays of affection. She had probably started writing it one day when she was bored, had become fully wrapped up in it, and consequently had been slightly disappointed to discover that it held elements of importance in it. She had most likely then stuffed it into an envelope and had promptly forgotten about it.

He reread the first two sentences of the letter and frowned. Then he reread the rest of the letter and frowned again.

He set the letter down and drummed his fingers on his desk. It was a Friday night. He was young, relatively speaking. Most people his age would have been out with their friends, or maybe out drinking. And it wasn't as if he was lacking either the friends to go out with or the motivation to drink.

Collins opened his drawer and dug past paper clips, empty boxes of staples, and out-of-ink pens. He picked up an interesting-looking sheet of paper, opened it to find a Shakespeare quote, and crumbled it up and threw it back into the desk. He found the piece of gum he was looking for and nodded at it triumphantly. _Got ya. _After reveling in his victory over the tornado called his desk drawer, he unwrapped the gum and threw it into his mouth, placing the wrapper (where else?) in his desk drawer.

He shut the drawer, sighed, chewed his gum, and picked up the other letter.

_Tom,_ it read. He cringed at the name and continued reading.

_Tom,_

_Stop stalling and come home. I need you. _

_Jen_

He reread the letter lazily and set it back down on his desk, next to Maureen's letter. He leaned back in his chair and rested his chin in his hand. The hard part for him was never following through with the action; the hard part was making the decision, sifting through all of the possible choices, between right and wrong and the many, many shades that lay in between, and deciding which one to act out on.

He sighed. Who was he kidding? He had known what his decision would be as soon as he read the letters. He was a sucker for family, and it didn't matter whether it was family by blood or by choice.

He picked up his coat and his favorite knit cap and shoved the two letters into his back pockets—Maureen's into his left, Jen's into his right. It was time to go.

The train was crowded (holidays were busy times), but Collins had always been fond of traveling. He got restless when he stayed in one place too long. There was so much to _do,_ so much to _see._ It took a lot to keep him in one place.

And yet…he chuckled to himself, shook his head. There were some people to whom he would always be drawn. His friends in New York. His family, including his sister, Jen. And first and foremost, _always _first and foremost, _her_.

Her…

He stared out the window. _Careful, now. _Some things were a little too raw to be dealt with. But at least he could acknowledge that fact. Baby steps.

The city of Cambridge was disappearing before his eyes. If he blinked, it would be gone. Traveling, for Collins, was rarely about the journey, and more about the destination. What did that mean about him?

He wasn't used to not having answers. He wasn't used to feeling so disconnected from everything.

Collins could handle things well. He had always known that. He was the rock for his friends, the one item of stability that they could rely on. He was the same for his family. But still…

He shook his head again, this time not a trace of mirth visible in his demeanor. He wasn't a very good source of stability. He liked to leave too much. Not to escape; just to leave for the sake of leaving. A new job, a new home, whatever it took. How ironic was it that everyone wanted support from the one person who hated being connected to anything for too long?

He shifted in his chair. The idea of being chained down…it made him uncomfortable. His family understood. His friends understood. Collins, quite simply, needed his space.

But right now…something was _wrong_, that much was clear. Because even after leaving, even after living in Cambridge, away from everyone, he wasn't feeling better. He needed something, he needed someone…and he wouldn't be getting what he needed, that much was certain.

He was tired of things not being right, but he didn't know how to fix them. _Therein lies my problem, _Collins thought sardonically. He pulled out the letter in his back right pocket, reread it, and sighed.

"Just in time for Christmas!" His Aunt Carla had said when he walked through the door. "I'm so glad you came. We all know how much you hate comin' home." She had wrapped him up in a hug, and even as she chuckled he could tell that she meant what she said.

"No," He insisted, holding her close. There had been a time when he didn't tower over her, when he could hide his face in her shirt and still feel invincible. "I just hate having to say good-bye to you."

She laughed when he said it, and rubbed his back comfortingly. She was consoling herself, not him; that was the effect that Collins had on people.

"How have you been?" She asked him. "We never hear from you."

"I call!"

"You call, talk for five minutes about the newest place you're moving to, then tell us that you have to go. If you think that qualifies as a good call, then you must be crazy." She shook her head at him as she finally let go and leaned to rest against the counter. He saw her for what she was. She was getting smaller, there were more gray hairs on her head than ever. And yet, she still radiated that same sense of motherliness. He almost felt ashamed for not having called more, especially when he looked at her and found himself struck with the thought that _even she isn't immune. _

"I'm sorry, Ma." She wasn't his mother, but she might as well have been. She was the one who had raised Jenny and him, after his mom and dad had died before he was old enough to remember what they looked like. "I'll try harder, you know I will." He smiled charmingly at her, and she laughed. She had always loved to laugh; it was she who had instilled that love of life in him.

"You always say that," she grumbled. "And then you smile like that and you know I can't help but tell you that it's okay and I understand how you're busy."

"I love you for it, though." He kissed her on her cheek and held her in his arms, pressing his cheek against hers.

She pushed him away. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just some old lady to you." She suddenly turned serious. "Your sister's upstairs. Go up and talk to her." She leaned back to study him for a moment. "Things are better now that you're here. They're better."

What he didn't understand, Collins thought to himself as he walked up the stairs to Jen's room, was how he could comfort others when he was feeling so uncomfortable. It was a physical thing, partly—the house was too small, the hallways too narrow, everything a little too much—but he had been feeling like this for awhile. The world was too much with him, though not in the sense that Wordsworth had meant.

He wasn't sure of how he was feeling, though. It was a sense, he guessed, a sense that he didn't belong here or anywhere.

And the problem, he knew, was that the one place he belonged was with the one person who no longer—

_Still too soon_, he reminded himself. God, it was too soon for anything.

He was standing outside of Jen's door. He knocked twice, quietly, waited for a few seconds, and walked in.

The room was just as it had been a little less than ten years ago, when he and Jen had both still lived at home. The same pictures hung on the bulletin board, the same inspirational quotes were on post-it notes on her dresser. Her favorite quote lay in the center, in print too small for Collins to read. He squinted, but all he could make out was the author—Shakespeare.

Jen was laying on her bed, covered by her quilt (the one she had sewn herself). Collins didn't say anything, just came and sat in the chair beside her bed and waited.

As he waited, he thought about his friends in New York. He thought about his job, about his students. He thought about the way that life had been curved around the edges, lately, the way that things hadn't been making sense. He thought about how much he hated the way things had been.

When it was apparent that Jen was not going to talk, he leaned back in his chair, sighed, and began to speak.

"Yesterday," He began quietly, "I cried." He leaned forward again, clasped his hands together with his elbows pressing down on his legs. "But it wasn't a big deal. I cry all the time. Sometimes I don't even realize that I'm doing it."

Jen shifted slightly, under her covers. He waited, and sure enough, soon he heard a muffled, "Why?"

He immediately shrugged. "Don't know."

"Yes you do," she countered. She pulled the covers off her face. She looked the same as she did the last time she had seen him, only with redder eyes. They looked at each other for awhile, in silence, and then she sighed.

"Go ahead and say it," She said defiantly. "Go ahead."

"I'm not going to say it," Collins said evenly.

She laughed derisively. "Then I will for you. _You told me so._ You knew from the beginning that he wasn't in love with me no matter how much he thought he was. You knew that he was the type that would cheat on me, you knew that I shouldn't have given my heart to him. You knew, but I was stubborn, and I wouldn't listen, and now I have to pay the consequences. There."

Collins remained quiet. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock in the corner, and the quiet thud of Collins' foot tapping the ground. He waited for Jen to speak again.

"Well," She said, resigned. "Tell me how I fix this."

At this, Collins laughed incredulously. "Me? Tell you?" He resisted the urge to enter into a long rant about the reasons why he was in no place to tell anyone else how to fix problems in their lives. He decided instead to admit, "I'm too screwed up to advise anyone else."

"I'm not _anyone else._ I'm your sister. You _know_ me. And you're you, you always know what to do."

Collins pushed down his irritation. He'd forgotten how his little sister always knew how to annoy him. "I'm not perfect, Jen, and I'm not your problem-solver."

"Okay, I get it, your life sucks. Please, Tom, I need your help here. You're the only person who seems to have this whole life thing figured out. Please, Tom. I need advice."

"Me too," Collins shot back.

"I need it _more,_" Jen told him, her competitive side kicking in.

"You don't know that." He could be competitive, too. And all the frustration at the standstill that his life had become was suddenly rising up to be poured out upon the person who needed it least.

"I've kept myself locked up in my old room for two weeks."

"I haven't been able to let myself call my friends in months."

"I haven't been going to work for all the time I've been here. I don't know if I still even have a job."

"I've kept a job that I hate for no other reason than that I don't know what else to do with myself."

"I'm afraid of letting myself be with other people."

"I'm afraid of letting myself acknowledge my relationships with other people."

"My husband _cheated _on me!" Jen whispered fiercely. "And I was too much of a coward to confront him about it, so I ran away! Because I knew the whole time that he was going to do it, but I couldn't admit it to myself."

Collins shook his head. He nearly laughed, because he held the trump card in this stupid, stupid, argument of theirs. "My girlfriend died." He said.

Jen opened her mouth and shut it.

"I'm lost She's dead, and I'm _gone_, and I can't even let myself say her name." He put his head in his hands. This was what acceptance felt like.

"I'm sorry," Jen whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Collins wanted to tell her not to be. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for taking everything out on her. He wanted to be able to talk about how he needed to learn how to acknowledge things, he needed to stop himself from drifting into nowhere. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault that he didn't know how to fix himself, and that he didn't know why this time he couldn't push aside his own suffering to look at hers. He didn't say anything.

Jenny moved over in the bed. She squeezed herself against the wall, and looked at him. He got up and lay down beside her.

"Maybe it's okay," Jenny began. She stopped, and forced herself to speak once more. "Maybe it's okay for us not to be okay."

Collins thought about that. There didn't seem to be any answers coming soon, and in a world where the greatest things were still nonsensical, why try to make sense of it all? Why not just try to go with it?

They laid next to each other in silence. All Collins could hear was the stillness of the room and the pounding of his thoughts in his head. But no, those weren't his thoughts; that was his heart. He'd confused the two.

"What was her name?" Jenny asked. Her voice blended with the silence.

"Angel," Collins said. He felt like he was far away from himself and from her, but where was he? "I loved her."

He more felt than saw Jen nodding. He turned away from her, and she turned to face the wall, and still they felt united. Nothing had changed, but the fact that he could see that suddenly made all the difference.

It would be up to him to decide when the worst was over, he realized. It had been up to him all along, and that was the hard part.

Tomorrow, he would go back to New York, for the Christmas holidays. Jen and Aunt C would understand. His friends would be happy to see him. And they'd know, they would most certainly know, how he was still mourning. He wouldn't be okay, but they would be there. They would help make things okay.

And what was that Shakespeare quote, the one he had put back into his desk drawer? Perhaps the same one that Jen had written on the post-it on her mirror?

"_Fear no more the heat o' the sun_

_Nor the furious winter's rages."_

Fear no more, Collins thought drowsily. And he couldn't help but internally smile, as he drifted off, because he was sure that she…Angel, would have liked it.


	5. Playing the Game

**Title:** Playing The Game

**Summary: **Games and Conversations and Mark.

**Notes:** One month Post-RENT. Also, there is a little bit of language in this, so tread carefully.

And thanks to **Bound Dragon, sundrynotes, Evangeline Daae, and missxflawless and KP.**

* * *

They were playing that stupid game again. 

It was pointless and unnecessary and extremely fucking _morbid_, and Mark hated with a passion when Collins and Roger would play it. They would sit on the couch, grinning as they took swigs from cans of beer. Roger would tap a pen against the side of the couch and Collins would lean back, arms behind his head. And then they'd look at each other, those same stupid grins still on their face, and they wouldn't even have to suggest it before they'd be playing it again.

"My turn," Roger was saying. "I'd go out on Halloween and take kids' candy."

Collins snorted, but it sounded like he was trying to cover up a laugh. "Stealing candy from kids? _Lame. _And a new low, Davis."

Mark was hunched at the table, holding his camera and trying to ignore his friends' conversation. It was impossible, though. He was a filmmaker, trained to listen. Even, apparently, when he didn't want to.

Roger shook his head, wide-eyed and laughing. "No, seriously. Old people can do anything, why the hell not take advantage of that and get free candy? You know it's foolproof."

Collins leaned forward and pointed at his mouth. "False, my friend. You forget—you're old, you won't have the teeth to eat candy with."

Roger gave him an impish grin. "Dentures, Collins. Dentures."

This time Collins let himself laugh loudly. He draped a hand over the back of the couch and turned himself around. "Hey, Mark, feel like joining the fun?"

"No, thanks," Mark muttered. He turned his camera around in his hands, aware that he was holding it, but not focused on it. "You know I hate it when you play that." He was sure that Collins and Roger could hear the tension in his voice, no matter how he tried to hide it.

Mark risked a glance up at his friends. Roger was looking down at his hands while Collins was grinning again. Mark was starting to hate the unnaturally good mood that Collins had been in ever since he had come in last month at Christmas. "Come on, Mark. Who doesn't like a good game of 'What We'd Do If We Were Eighty'?"

Mark frowned. Collins could joke about it all he wanted, but all three of them knew that the name of the game was really 'What We'd Do If We Could Live To Be Eighty.' And that was the last thing Mark needed a reminder of, even if they thought it was fun to deal with the inevitable through laughter. "Let's just talk about something else," He finally said, unwilling to deal with the subject anymore.

In the near-silence that followed, Roger tapped his pen against the couch once more, Collins stretched and leaned back against the couch again, and Mark continued playing with his camera.

Finally, Roger spoke, breaking the silence. "Well," He said, and just by the tone of that one word, Mark knew what the topic of the next conversation would be about, and he nearly groaned out loud. "Maybe we can talk about your film."

* * *

"What do you want to know about it?" Mark asked guardedly. It wasn't like Maureen to ask about one of Mark's films. Then again, it wasn't like Maureen to stop by the loft for absolutely no reason, but that was happening, so maybe the world had turned upside down and all the unlikelies had turned into reality. That, of course, was unlikely. 

Maureen rolled her eyes. "I don't _know_," she said, sounding exasperated, though Mark wasn't exactly sure why. It wasn't as though _he_ was the one who had stormed into _her_ house to bother _her_. "Just tell me about it."

"Well," Mark said carefully, standing up from his chair and heading to the kitchen-area of the loft so that he could get some water. "It's finished."

Maureen shot him an _I'm-not-stupid_ glare. "I know _that_," She snapped. "I was there when we watched it, so you don't need to get all sarcastic." She sat down on the chair that Mark had just deserted and crossed her arms. "You know what? Just don't tell me anything. Excuse me for caring about you."

Mark ignored the twinge of guilt he felt at being unnecessarily rude to Maureen and brushed it off as insincere remorse. "Well, it's like you said. You were there; you saw it. What more do you want to know about it?"

"Why do you get so upset whenever anyone talks about it?" Maureen shot at him.

"What? I don't get upset."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're right. This is actually what you're like when you're in a good mood. My mistake." Why was it okay for Maureen to be sarcastic, but not for him to be?

Mark set his glass of water down on the table with a loud _thud._ "Why are you even here?" A pathetic attempt to change the subject; Maureen was much too persistent for it to work.

"Because." Maureen followed him to the table and leaned on it, her thick hair falling over her shoulders in long strands. "You've been so cranky lately. I just wanted to know what was wrong."

Mark waited.

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Oh, _all right_. Joanne kicked me out of the apartment because she needed to work on some case or something."

"Ah."

"But really, Mark, you have been cranky lately." Maureen picked up Mark's glass and drained all of the water in it.

"Don't do that," Mark snapped at her as he snatched up the empty glass and refilled it.

"See?" Maureen cried triumphantly. "Told ya."

Mark ignored the smug look that she sent his way. "Look, Maureen, I've got some work to do. So, if you don't mind…" He trailed off, giving her an expectant look.

Maureen smiled widely at him, all teeth. "Please, Mark. You don't have anything to do. You're just saying that because you want me to leave. But you know that as soon as I leave, you're going to get restless and wish that I was back." Nevertheless, she picked up her bag and started towards the door.

Mark scowled. It was not fair for Maureen to jump between annoying and perceptive like that. It threw him off guard.

Just as she reached the door, Maureen turned around again. "Hey, you know what you should do with your film?"

"What, Maureen?" Mark asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Use it as the background for your latest protest?"

"You wish," She retorted. "But no, that wasn't what I was going to say."

"Then what were you going to say?"

* * *

"You should do a big screening of it. Or show it at some film festival. Something like that. You know, let more people see it." From the seat across from him, Mimi reached over and stole a fry. She made a face at the amount of salt on it and wiped her hands off on her uniform. 

"Won't your boss get mad that you're eating when you should be serving customers?"

"Not if he doesn't know," Mimi grinned. "Besides, I think he has a crush on me." Her face suddenly darkened. "Don't tell Roger that."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good." Mimi looked like she was eyeing his fries again, so Mark surreptitiously slid the container a little closer to him. She gave him a _look_, as if to let him know that she could steal food from him anytime she wanted and nothing he did would stop her.

"So how's the job?" Mark asked. It was a little strange seeing Mimi in the waitress uniform. Though with her easy-to-relate-to personality, it made sense that she would do well when it came to getting tips.

She shrugged. "It's a living. Better than the alternative. You know how it goes." And he did. He had done his share of jobs-to-make-ends-meet. But he suspected that Mimi was talking more about the pressure of when she had been a newly-clean stripper in a job where most where junkies. Plus, after that scare on Christmas, he knew that all of them were grateful that Mimi was in a job that wasn't so physically demanding.

Mark thought that he had effectively changed the topic of the conversation, but Mimi was not to be easily deterred. "Really, Mark, have you considered doing something with your film?"

Mark sighed. "Actually, you're not the first person to suggest that. Maureen said almost the exact same thing last week when she stopped by."

"Great minds." Mimi took another fry and swirled it around in ketchup before eating it.

"Maybe not."

Mimi glossed over his words. "So if both Maureen and I have already told you this, why haven't you run out of the restaurant already and started looking for places to screen it?"

Mark ate a fry to stall for time. Then he said, "Look, Mimi, it's not that simple. There's more to it then just looking for a place to screen it. You need—"

"Money, time, and people who will watch it," Mimi listed off on one hand. "I know it's not simple, Mark, but it's not that complicated, either. If you really wanna do it, then it can be done." It was a very Mimi-esque way of thinking. Do what you want to do, screw the obstacles and the consequences.

Mark looked up and watched a large group of people file into the restaurant. "Shouldn't you get back to work?"

Mimi waved her hands dismissively. "They can handle it." She grabbed another fry and continued speaking. "Tell you what, Mark. You just decide when you want to screen it. I'll take care of all the details. I'll get someone to sponsor you, and I can invite tons of people to come and see it."

Mark sighed. "Mimi, has anyone ever told you that you have a habit of butting into people's lives when they don't want you to?"

Mimi flashed a bright smile. "All the time." She looked up and noticed more people entering the restaurant, and then she saw the hostess who had spent the last five minutes gesturing at her to get back to work. She shrugged nonchalantly.

"Guess I should go," She said. She grabbed one final fry and dipped it in ketchup, then swore as the ketchup dropped onto her uniform.

"Karma for stealing them," Mark told her, and she gave him a one-fingered salute in return. Then she smiled again.

"Don't worry, Mark, I'll get everything taken care of," She promised as she licked a finger and attempted to rub the ketchup off her uniform. She was wearing one of her typical Mimi-grins, the one that meant she was up to something, as she hurried off.

Mark shook his head to himself and ate a fry before he suddenly realized what her last words to him had been.

* * *

"_What_ is it that you've taken care of?" Mark asked, disbelief evident in his voice. He hovered over the phone anxiously. He hadn't been planning on answering it, but the leaver of the message had claimed that it was "extremely important." 

"The screening," Benny replied. Mark could just imagine him in his office, one hand holding the phone and another holding a pen, filling out paperwork. Benny was a master of multi-tasking. "I've taken care of all the details. No need to thank me, consider it an act of kindness from one friend to anoth-"

"Wait, what?"

"The screening that you want for your film. Which I'm looking forward to, by the way, since I haven't seen-"

"Wait, what?"

"Screening. You. Film." Benny was starting to sound annoyed. Mark vaguely remembered how Benny hated being interrupted.

"Wait-,"

"If you say "what" I'm not going to tell you anything else."

Mark opened his mouth and shut it. "Okay. Go on."

"Mimi and Maureen called and told me that you needed a place to screen your film for a large group of people. They also said that you might need some…money for expenses." Benny stopped speaking, implying that there was more to say.

"What else did they say?"

"That if I ever wanted to be considered an acquaintance again, that I would do this without complaint. And that just because I did do it didn't mean that they liked me." Benny sounded mildly bothered by this fact, but Mark was sure it was more at the thought of Maureen and Mimi attempting to negotiate with him than at what they had actually said.

"So, basically, you now have a location for the screening of your film. All expenses taken care of. Just tell me the date, and it will be finalized."

"No." Mark shook his head. "This isn't happening. I never okayed this. No way."

"They also told me that you would say something to that effect," Benny said calmly. "They assured me that it was merely modesty speaking."

"It's not!" At Benny's silence, Mark groaned. "Benny, seriously. My film is finished, but it's not ready for a screening!"

"They said you might say that, too. And they reminded me that you had, in fact, already shown it to _some people_." Here Benny sounded annoyed again. "Speaking of that, Mark, I'm a little hurt by how I wasn't invited to see it. I know we've had some tension between us, but I still count you as my friend and I thought—"

Mark put his head in his hands. This was not the time to have to deal with Benny whining.

"Benny, it was a crisis It didn't feel like the right moment to mail you an invitation." He sighed and tried to focus. "That film is not good enough to show to anyone else. Come over and you can see it, Benny, but please don't let this stupid screening happen."

"Again with the modesty, Mark." Benny chuckled and suddenly sounded like himself from two years ago. "Dude, just chill out about it, 'cause it's happening no matter what. Quit being nervous. I bet the film's great."

Mark sat down heavily. "My film's going to get shown at a screening._ Damnit_, Benny, do you have any idea what this means?"

* * *

"It means that you have friends who care about you and are somewhat invested in your future," Joanne said in her typical logical fashion. "Honestly, Mark, I don't see what the big deal is. This isn't life-threatening and it's certainly not worth calling me so late at night." 

It was eleven, which didn't feel too late to Mark. But then again, he guessed that it was different for people who actually had to get up at sunrise.

"Sorry, Joanne," He told her. "But tell Maureen that she needs to call up Benny and tell him that this isn't _happening._"

Joanne sighed on the other end of the phone line, and Mark knew that he wasn't going to like whatever it was she had to say. "Mark, you know as well as I do that there's nothing I can tell Maureen that will stop her once she has an idea in her head and a willing partner-in-crime. Why don't you try talking to Mimi?"

"Do you know Mimi at all?"

"Do you know Maureen?" Joanne retorted. "It's pretty much hopeless, Mark. Though really, it doesn't seem like a very bad situation to me. You get to show your film to the masses. Maybe an influential critic will be there. This could be a defining career move for you."

Mom could recognize that to anyone who wasn't him, this seemed like a good opportunity. But the problem was that they just didn't understand. This was about more than just showing a film to a group of people. It was about more than he could say, more than he wanted to think about. And it wasn't fair that he was being forced to deal with it against his will.

"Hello? Mark, are you there?"

"Yeah, sorry, Joanne. I'm here." He sighed. "Are you sure you can't just find a way to get Maureen to stop?"

Joanne didn't even bother to answer the question, but Mark hadn't been expecting an answer anyway. "Mark, why is this bothering you so much?"

* * *

"Maybe it's because I don't need a reminder that all my friends are dying!" There, he'd finally said it. He hadn't meant to shout it, but he couldn't help it. Collins was just great at asking questions that people didn't want to answer. 

Mark took a deep breath and calmed himself down. "Maybe that's why I don't like to play that stupid game."

Collins didn't say anything for awhile. He just looked at Mark from his position on the couch, in the exact same spot that he had been sitting in the other day. Mark, who was sitting across from him, once again pretending to fiddle with his camera, also stayed silent.

They were the only two people in the loft. He supposed that was why Collins had decided to ask Mark why he always tensed up whenever Collins and Roger started playing their new favorite game.

It was a dumb question. Mark knew that Collins knew why. He suspected that Collins had just wanted to get him to say it out loud.

Well, he had said it.

"Maybe that's the same reason why we play it," Collins said finally.

"You need a reminder of your own death?"

"No. _You _do."

Mark scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I know you're dying. I know I'm going to be alone. Why are we even talking about this? This really isn't light conversation." He tried for a casual chuckle and failed.

Collins ignored him. "Yeah, you know. But do you _know_?" He stared at Mark meaningfully.

"Collins, you're not even making sense."

"Why don't you want to show your film?"

"I'm just not ready to. Is that so hard for everyone to understand?" Mark sighed in frustration and got up from the couch, prepared to stalk to his room and ignore how much he felt like an angsty teenager. Or maybe like Roger when he was in one of his moods.

"Mark-"

"Collins, you don't know everything!"

Collins let out a long breath, deep and slow. "Okay. Fair enough. But—let me say one more thing, okay? Because it's something that I just figured out."

His hand hovered over the doorknob to his room, but Mark stood and waited.

"You can't change what's already happened. Or what's going to happen. You just have to…accept it." He ran a hand over his hair and looked up at Mark, who was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

Slowly, Mark stepped away from his room and sat next to Collins on the couch. He raised an arm to his shoulder, offering support. Collins smiled gratefully.

"Please, let's talk about something else," Mark said, but he wasn't sure if he was asking for his sake or for Collins'.

Collins just nodded quickly. He looked up at Mark and opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

"Want to play a game?" Mark looked up to see Roger standing in the doorway to his room. 

"It had better not be—"

"Don't worry, it's not." Roger came towards Mark and sat on the floor beside him, back against the wall and legs crossed in front of him.

Mark gave him an odd look, but shrugged. "Okay. What game?"

Roger tilted his head up to look at the ceiling. "Truth. Like Truth or Dare, but without the dare part."

Mark opened his mouth and closed it again. Roger obviously had something he wanted to say. He decided, after some deliberation, to go along with it. "All right."

"I'll start." Roger lowered his head and looked straight ahead. "Does Mimi's boss have a crush on her?" He threw a quick glance at Mark. "You have to be honest."

Mark couldn't help but grin. "Nothing we say leaves this room?"

"Nothing."

"Then yes." Before Roger could react, he launched a question at him. "Do you trust Mimi?"

Roger breathed in sharply, which meant he understood just what Mark was asking by that. "Yeah." He threw out the next question quickly. "Do you want to call a truce with Benny?"

Mark thought for a moment. "Yes. Do you?"

"Maybe. Do you still like Maureen?"

"No." And it had taken a long time to get to that point. "Is "Your Eyes" the best song you've ever written?"

Roger grinned sheepishly. "No. Don't tell Mimi that." Then he was focused again. "Why have you been so agitated lately?"

Now they were getting to the real heart of the matter. Mark fought against his first instinct, which was to avoid the question by answering with one of his own. "Because of my film," He managed. He took a minute before he asked his next question. "Are you happy?"

Roger hesitated, but not for too long. "Yes." He glanced at Mark out of the corner of his eye. "Are you?"

"I don't know," Mark said as honestly as he could. "I mean, yeah, I am now. But I'm not, because I know…I just know." _That I won't be soon. _

Roger nodded, and Mark knew that he understood. He took a deep breath, and prepared himself for the next question, the question that he wasn't even supposed to ask. "Do you know why I don't want to show my film?"

Slowly, Roger turned to look at him. Mark stared straight ahead, well aware of where Roger's gaze was directed.

When Roger finally spoke, it was quietly. "Maybe." And then, even quieter. "Do you want me to say why?"

"Yeah."

This time, Roger breathed in before speaking. "I think you're scared of how good things are now. And I think…I think that you know that if you show your film then you're accepting that things have to change. And become what you might not want. And you don't want to lose what you have now. Because you know what's gonna happen. Eventually." Only the sound of their breathing, until Roger spoke again. "Am I right?"

"It's my turn," Mark said. "Are you scared?" It was surprisingly easy to ask it point-blank.

"Yes." Roger said it without faltering. "Are you going to screen your film?"

He'd known the answer all along. He wasn't sure why he'd tried to fight it so much when everyone had known all along how it was going to turn out. "Yeah."

Roger turned to him again. "Are you scared?"

Mark didn't even bother telling him how it wasn't his turn. He had a feeling that it wasn't really about the game anymore. "You bet." He laughed a little, and it sounded strange in the filled silence of the room. "I hate time."

"Who doesn't?" Roger asked, but he was smiling, and Mark guessed it was because he knew that neither of them really did. "What are you gonna say at the screening?"

* * *

"Hi. I'm Mark. Mark Cohen. And this is, uh, the official screening of my documentary, _Today 4 U._" He grinned. "If you don't know that, then now would be a good time to get out while you can." Scattered laughter. 

"Anyway. This film was inspired by a lot of things. Mainly by real life, and by the situations that I was going through. Basically, I couldn't pay the rent." More laughter.

"But it was also inspired by one of my friends, who passed away a few months ago. She taught me a lot about what it means to live, and not to hide—whether from yourself or from the truth or from death or from…the future."

"So with that in mind, this film is dedicated to her. But it's also dedicated to my friends, all of those people who have stuck by me. They'll actually be making appearances in the film." Maureen beams up at him from her seat in the front row. "But thanks to those guys, because without them, I wouldn't be here showing this film, and all of you wouldn't be here, preparing to watch it." And that was true. It was funny, in a strange manner, the way his fear had only been overcome by the help of the very people who were central to it. Funny and strange, but of course it made sense.

"I think that's all I have to say. So here's _Today 4 U, _a Mark Cohen film. Hope you enjoy it." The audience claps, the front row clapping loudest of all, and the lights dim and the film begins to roll.


	6. A Thousand Words

**Title:** A Thousand Words

**Summary:** She may be a drama queen, but that doesn't mean that she's completely self-obsessed. Maureen does more than a good deed. Title refers to what a picture says.

**Notes:** Takes place two or three months post-RENT. The least angsty installment, and probably one of my favorites.

* * *

"So the red roses represent love. Like, _true_ love. You know, romance, and that sort of thing. Pink is like…love, but not as deep. Maybe more admiration? I don't know if that's the right word. Anyway." The teenager at the counter blushes, and Maureen impatiently waits for him to continue. 

"Right. Um. Okay. Yellow's like friendship. Like, warmth and stuff. Lavender's infatuation, I guess. Or love at first sight. Adoration. You know. And orange is kind of weird, it can be a lot of things. Like, desire and romance. But it can also just be enthusiasm and excitement. It's kind of hard to explain."

"No, I get it," Maureen insists. She smiles again and enjoys the way his face turns red. It's nice to have this sort of power.

But still, she came here for answers. "What about white? What do white roses mean?"

"Oh, you don't want those." He shakes his head fervently.

"Why not?" Maureen's always been attracted to things she can't have; she'll be the first to admit that.

"Well, they can be used for weddings. And they can represent purity and innocence, too. But they're also used for funerals."

"Funerals?"

"Yeah. As a symbol of remembrance." He brushes shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. His hair looks a little greasy. He's definitely gone for the grunge fad.

"Hmm." Maureen raises a finger to her chin, taps it and thinks. "Well. She's a good friend, so I think I'll use yellow." She tilts her head to the right a little. "But, she's definitely all enthusiastic and stuff. Usually. And I know she'll like the way pink roses look. And she's always liked the color red…" She frowns, and quickly comes to a decision. "Okay. I think I'll just mix yellow and orange. And I'll tell her what they represent and all. Yeah, that's what I'll use. Yellow and orange." She nods decisively.

The boy at the counter nods earnestly, as if he had helped her work her way through the decision. "Okay, so, yellow and orange." He reaches over to grab them, and Maureen stops him.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry! I don't want to buy them! I just want to take a picture with them." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a Polaroid camera.

The kid looks a little startled, but he gets over it quickly. "Oh, um, okay. Sure. That's cool." He starts to move out of the way.

Maureen frowns again. This won't work. She turns to the kid again, and puts on one of her most charming smiles. "Do you think you could bring them out for me anyway?"

He looks startled again. "Uh, I don't know if I'm allowed to…"

"Please? Come on, no one's around. And you helped me go through all that roe symbolism stuff. You don't want to let this all be for a waste. Besides," She gives him the face, the one where her eyes look really big and pleading. "if you do this for me I will be a _very_ satisfied customer."

That's the clincher, and the kid's a goner then. He grins goofily at her. "Okay. Sure." He turns around and pulls out a good amount of yellow and orange roses. "Do you want to just take a picture of them?" He asks her.

Maureen shakes her head vehemently. "No, I have to be in the picture. Will you take it?" She's already handing him the camera before she's finished the question, but it's not like he was going to refuse anyway.

She carefully gathers the roses in her hands, avoiding the thorns, and beams for the camera. "Say cheese," He mumbles, and clicks.

"Thanks!" Maureen tells him. She puts the roses down on the glass counter and takes the Polaroid camera and the picture that just emerged from it. She lays the unclear picture on the counter, a safe distance away from the roses, and tucks the camera back into her bag. Mark probably wouldn't be happy if anything happened to it. If he ever found out that she took it.

From her bag, Maureen pulls out a purple pen. She brings the still-developing photo closer to her, and in the white space underneath the actual picture, she scrawls _yellow roses friendship. Orange roses excitement. Friendship, excitement, and Maureen all you ever need!_

Satisfied with what she's written and with how the picture appears to be developing, Maureen tucks the pen back into her bag and the picture into an envelope that she's just produced from the same bag. She looks up to see the kid putting the roses back, trying to find a way to arrange them nicely. In order to accomplish his task, he's taken out a white and a red rose that he looks like he's about to put back.

"Wait," She tells him. He looks up, surprised. "Can I take a picture of those two flowers? They look really pretty," She says, when she notices the same surprised look still on his face.

He shrugs. "Sure. Do you, uh, want to be in the picture again?"

She shakes her head. "No, it's fine." It might not look as good without her, but she's not planning to give this picture out anyway. She quickly snaps a photo of the two flowers, crossed at the stems and lying on the glass counter. There's something about them that grabs her attention. She doesn't question why, just sticks this picture in her bag, away from the other one. She waves good-bye to the kid at the counter, who waves back shyly and blushes again. The sight of the blush makes her laugh appreciatively on her way out. It's nice to know she's still got it.

* * *

"So you want eat sushi?" 

"No. I want to take a _picture_ of me _pretending_ to eat sushi." This isn't that hard to understand, so Maureen doesn't get why it's giving this waiter so much trouble. "I'm not going to eat the sushi. I'm not going to order the sushi. I just want a picture of me with the sushi."

"So you want sushi?"

"Yes. No. I mean, yes, I want the sushi, but I'm not eating it and I certainly hope that you don't expect me to pay for it!"

The waiter blinks and looks at Maureen again. It's obvious that he doesn't speak English very well, so Maureen doesn't want to yell at him. He's just a normal working-class citizen caught up in a web that he's not even aware of.

So she sighs, a long-suffering one, and asks as politely as she can, "May I please speak to your manager?"

The poor waiter nods and scampers off, and Maureen pretends to glance at the watch that Joanne gave her for her birthday. She's not really looking at the time, but she figures that it adds to the show for all the other customers in the restaurant. And they are definitely watching.

Maureen waits for a few seconds, and then decides to take a different approach. She stalks down the restaurant until she sees what she wants. "Ah! You have a California Roll!"

The people in question are a couple sitting across from each other in a booth, probably just a year or two Maureen's junior. Cute guy, cute girl, cute couple. Of course, they don't look so cute now. They look scared, with Maureen looming over them.

With that in mind, Maureen sits down next to the girl who has the sushi and explains her situation. First, though, she needs to take care of some other business. "Hello," She says, as brisk and Joanne-ish as she can be. "I'm Maureen. Maureen Johnson." She doesn't wait for them to introduce themselves before she plows on, loudly enough for all the people whispering and watching in the restaurant to hear. "I need to take a picture of me pretending to eat some California Roll sushi. Which, as I'm sure you know, you appear to be sharing. Would you mind if I borrowed it temporarily for this photograph?"

They stare at her. Maureen takes that as a yes.

"Thanks. Now you—" She rummages through her bag, pulls out her Polaroid, and hands it to the guy sitting across from her. "—take the picture. And you—" She turns to the girl beside her and plucks the fork out of her hand. "—scoot over just a little. This is more of a solo shoot," She explains.

She fixes her hair, adjusts her shirt, and smiles widely, one hand holding the fork over the sushi.

_Click! _And it's done. The guy appears to still be taken aback, but Maureen's used to that. Lots of people seem to have that reaction to her. She places the fork back into the girl's hand and takes the camera and her photo from the guy. "Thank you both so much," She said. "Again, Maureen Johnson. Look me up sometime if you ever want a good show." She winks at him, then at the girl too for good measure.

Maureen stands with as much dignity as possible and strides back towards the entrance of the restaurant, the clicking of her heels very noticeable against the tile floor. By this time the waiter has returned with his manager, who looks annoyed at being bothered. Before he can speak, Maureen raises a hand to cut him off.

"It's all taken care of," She tells him. She extends her hand anyway, and shakes his, and lets him know her name. "Maureen Johnson. Can't say it's been a pleasure, but I'm sure you know how it goes."

She shakes hand with the waiter too, and before she leaves, she turns to all those who are seated in the restaurant. "Maureen Johnson," She announces again, and waves once, before she walks out. Just in case.

Outside the restaurant, she pulls the just-taken picture out of the envelope. She leans against the wall of the building and quickly scribbles _California Rolls. Your favorite—I remember._

* * *

"Oh, my God! You're an actual clown!" Maureen's been in New York for awhile and she's seen a lot of things, but she has never seen a clown just strolling through the streets. And it's a real clown, with big shoes, a red nose, pasty make-up, large clothes—the whole deal. This is too good for her to pass up. "Do a magic trick for me!" 

The clown stares at her.

Maureen waits.

The clown stares more.

Maureen taps her foot and sighs. "Fine. Then at least make a balloon animal or something."

The clown shakes his head. "Cash?"

Maureen snorts. "Are you kidding me? You're not even working! Can't it be your good deed for the day?"

This time the clown laughs derisively. "Good deeds? Please. Good deeds don't pay the bills."

"It's not even for me. It's for my friend, she's in the hospital—"

"Yeah, right."

"Do you honestly think I would ask you for a balloon animal and make up a story about it?" Never mind the fact that she would. "You are one really screwed-up clown."

"Deal with it, lady."

"Fine. Forget you." Maureen pushes past him, pissed off. Weren't clowns supposed to be happy with making people smile? This one must have sucked at clown school.

"Hey—hey lady! Wait up!" She turns around and sees the clown running after her. He looks pretty ridiculous, shoving people aside and stepping on toes with those huge shoes.

Maureen's not exactly ready to forgive him yet. "What?"

He sighs, and takes off his hideous yellow-and-purple hat. "Were you serious about your friend being in the hospital?"

"Of course I was! Why would I joke about that?" Maureen glared at him. "She's been in there for a few days. I'm supposed to be with her right now."

"Okay. Well." He scratches the back of his head. "I'll make you a balloon animal. I mean, I'm not that good at them, but I'll try."

How can he not be good at making balloon animals? He's a clown! But Maureen decides instead to focus on the fact that he actually agreed to it. "Okay, great! Make a cat!"

He's already blowing up the balloons. Maureen watches as he twists and shapes a red one into a cat, and he's done within moments. He hands it to her and she nearly gives him a hug.

"Thank you! Now here, take a picture of me with it! No, wait…" Maureen stops a woman who's walking by leisurely. "Excuse me, will you take a picture of us?" The woman nods indifferently and takes the camera.

"Smile," Maureen instructs the clown. She picks up the red balloon cat and snakes an arm through the clown's. The woman clicks, the picture slides out of the Polaroid, and Maureen's pleased. "Thank you," She tells the woman as she takes the camera and the picture back. The camera goes into her bag, and she hands the cat back to the clown.

"Thanks," She tells him solemnly. "I really appreciate it."

"That's it?" He asks. "You don't even want to keep it?"

"Nope. Here, you can have it," She offers. He takes it and shrugs again.

"Strange lady," He mutters, and she hears it as she walks away but she doesn't care. She's too busy concentrating on the picture as it develops. It's forming nicely, with the cat sitting proudly between Maureen and the clown. Maureen smiles, and she ducks into a coffee shop just so that she can have a hard surface to place the picture upon so that she can write on it: _Clown for a smile. Feline for a feline. _

* * *

They look like some sort of sports team or something, all fifteen or so of them wearing the same blue jersey. They're probably high-schoolers, here for a tournament. They're definitely tourists, which either makes this easier or harder. Doesn't really matter which. 

The point, Maureen notices, is that they all have the same blue face paint on.

She sidles up to a group of four of them. "Hi," She tells them.

She watches as they look at her appreciatively, apparently liking what they see (who could blame them?). They give each other unsure glances, until one of them steps forward, a confident sort of smile on his face. The ringleader.

"What are you guys here for?" She asks them. And if her hair manages to fall forward into a perfect position that catches the leader's eye, well then that's just pure luck.

"We're here for a hockey tournament," He tells her. He forces himself to keep his eyes trained on her eyes.

"Cool," She tells them, and they all nod along. "I'm Maureen. Can I ask you a favor?"

"Depends what it is," He says, and his little smirk gets bigger.

"Nothing too crazy," She tells him. "I mean, if you're up for it."

He shrugs, the picture of fake casual-nonchalance. "Yeah, sure, why not."

Maureen's grin gets a little bigger, too. "Well, you might have to take some clothes off."

They're all a little stunned at that, and Maureen uses the opportunity to continue. "I mean your hats, so that I could write something on your foreheads and take a picture of it." They recover quickly and all nod and whip their hats off.

Moments later, Maureen has blue face-paint on her fingers and has just finished drawing an _I_ on the forehead of the last guy. She pulls over another guy and gets him to take a picture of the four of them, their foreheads spelling out _M I M I _and her beside the last guy, smiling broadly.

She thanks them after the picture's been taken, and starts placing the camera back in her bag, when the leader taps her on the shoulder. "Uh, could we get a picture with you, too?"

"Of course," She says sweetly. She stands in the middle of the four of them, and they all smile while another guy snaps the photo and looks at her wistfully. She gives them the picture before it's fully developed.

As she walks off, she takes out the picture that was just taken and writes carefully on the bottom of it: _They don't have to know you to love you. _She's about to put it away, and then she reconsiders and adds, _(And me). _

* * *

She takes one more picture, but this one's just of the subway and people in it. She writes, very simply below it, _New York,_ because she's never known anyone who loves the city as much as Mimi does. 

When she's done, she looks at the watch Joanne gave her (for real, this time) and curses to herself. She's later than she thought she'd be. But she can't be really upset, because she's actually quite proud of herself. She's pulled off this idea pretty well, and almost single-handedly.

Twenty minutes later, Maureen's at the hospital. She doesn't have to ask what room Mimi's in; Joanne told her yesterday. She can't keep the smile off her face when she thinks about the pictures and what it's going to be like when Mimi gets them.

When she gets to the door, she knocks once before entering. Mimi's in the bed, and Roger's sitting beside her in his usual spot. Joanne is standing on Mimi's other side, and Mark's standing beside Roger. Joanne frowns and marches over to her.

"Maureen," She hisses. "You're two hours late! Where have you been?"

"Don't worry about it, Pooki-"

"No, Maureen, this isn't the time for games. This is time to think about someone other than yourself!" She looks at Maureen and her eyes narrow. "You didn't even buy her the flowers!"

All through their conversation, Mark, Mimi, and Roger have been pretending not to listen, but Mark can't continue when Maureen starts to unload her bag. "Hey—isn't that my camera?"

"Yeah, I borrowed it for the afterno-"

"You were out all day _taking pictures_?!" Joanne is livid. Maureen ignores her because nothing she says is going to fix anything yet, and she pulls out the envelope that holds the pictures.

She pushes past Mark to take his spot and smiles at Mimi. "Hey, Mimi!"

Mark looks mildly annoyed, but he slides over and discreetly picks up his old camera. Mimi smiles back weakly. "Hey, Maureen."

"I brought something for you," Maureen says excitedly. "Well, more than some_thing_, but…you'll see. Here, look!" She shoves the envelope into Mimi's hands and waits.

Mimi pulls out the pictures with a slightly puzzled look on her face. Everyone leans over to look, and Mark says quietly, "They're just pictures of Maureen."

Maureen shakes her head fiercely, "No, they're not. Mimi, _look._"

And when Mimi does, the look of confusion on her face changes to one of awe when she sees the first picture of the yellow and orange roses. Her smile turns genuine as she reads Maureen's caption at the bottom. At the second one, the one in the restaurant, she gives Maureen a look of pure gratitude. At the third, Mimi laughs at the clown and _ooh_'s at the balloon-animal cat. The fourth one makes Mimi laugh again, especially as she reads what's written below it. And at the fifth one Mimi's face positively lights up. She looks at it for a long while before she looks back up at Maureen again.

Maureen's still grinning. She can't help it; she knows she did well this time.

Mimi's grinning too, and reaching her arms out to give Maureen a hug. "Thank you," She whispers, and Maureen squeezes her in return. As she stands, Mark takes his spot back and Mimi begins to show the pictures to him and Roger.

Joanne slips over to where Maureen is and drapes an arm around her waist. "Maureen, I-"

But Maureen shushes her. For once, she doesn't need to hear Joanne's apology. She watches Mark, Mimi, and Roger point and exclaim over the pictures, she feels Joanne hold her a little tighter, and she's happy because she's made everyone else happy. She's done a pretty good job, if she does say so herself. And of course, she does. After all, she _is_ Maureen Johnson.


	7. Sunday Mornings

**Title:** Sunday Mornings  
**Summary**: Benny knew that it would turn out this way, but that doesn't stop him from still having to deal with it. **  
Notes**: About four or five months Post-RENT. This installment is different from the rest in that it isn't crafted around only facts; I made an assumption about Benny and Mimi's relationship and then based the entire story around that.

* * *

**  
**

On Sunday mornings, Benny always feels sorry for having loved anyone.

It makes sense, because Monday through Friday, he's busy being Mr. Benjamin Coffin, or "The Most Motivated Young Man You'll Ever Meet," as his boss/father-in-law boasts (_every single day) _when he claps him heartily on the back. On Saturdays, he's Ben, Alison's charming husband.

On Mondays through Saturdays, Benny likes himself.

On Sunday mornings, Alison goes to church with her mother and Benny is left in the house, surrounded by all the things that he is and all the things he is not, and always, always, confronted by the fact that he doesn't know which things are worse.

On Sunday mornings, Benny lies in bed with his eyes closed to block out the light that sneaks through the blinds. On Sunday mornings, Benny thinks about life and how he never trusted anyone, so it's no wonder that he doesn't trust himself, and how perhaps that should be the other way around.

On Sunday mornings, Benny is faced with the overwhelming reality of just who he is and the even more overwhelming question of _why_.

This Sunday morning, Benny's thoughts are interrupted by the steady ringing of the telephone.

Benny doesn't pick up (he never picks up during his designated time of self-examination/reproach). He waits and waits, and the phone rings and rings, and finally it beeps and Mark's voice drops into the air, a careful monotone that doesn't quite make the tension in the air resonate.

Benny strains his ears to listen to the message. Mark clears his throat from miles away, and finally speaks.

"Benny…it's Mark. Just calling to say that…the funeral. It's next Sunday. 10 AM. Same place as usual." His voice cracks on the last word.

One week. Sunday morning.

It's fitting, Benny supposes.

* * *

The problem is not just one problem, the problem is several problems that bind together to form one huge problem that points at Benny and snickers at him when it thinks that he's not looking. 

The problem is that Benny is a writer. The problem is that when Benny writes—no, when Benny _used_ to write—he would feel okay. He would feel open, and almost-truthful, and inspired, and creative, and _okay. _

The problem is that in the clichéd novel of his life, Mimi takes up about half of the book. Not in time, of course—she swung into his life for seven months, just long enough to scribble her name on every line in his metaphorical guestbook, laughing, of course, as she did—but in _presence_, in the way that she made him feel like every moment lasted longer than it normally did, like every sight was clearer than usual, like every kiss was more than what it ever had been before.

In short, she made him feel _alive_.

It wasn't love, it couldn't be. He loved looking at her, holding her, laughing with her, seeing her smile, watching her dance. Loved her lips, her teeth, her eyes, her hair. Loved being with her, loved talking to her. Loved everything about her but _her,_ even though he knew what and who she loved.

The problem is that he even loved the way she looked at him the day she left, when the sky was white and it was drizzling. And she had stood there, clutching her bag with her leopard-spotted gloves that were cut off at the fingertips, eyes wide and angry and cheerful, all at onceAnd he had been so occupied with the fact that the air smelled cleaner than it ever had before that he'd almost missed the way that she waved good-bye briskly, as if they hadn't just yelled at each other, as if they were good friends and she was just leaving to go down the block to the grocery store.

He'd wanted to write a book about her right then and there. He even would have left out the little details like smack, if she'd wanted him to. She probably wouldn't have wanted him to.

She left on a Wednesday. He remembered, because he went back inside and wrote it in his planner, in small block letters, black ink, all caps: SHE LEFT

On Wednesday, Collins calls him. He calls him on his work phone, during lunch hour, which only shows just how aware Collins really is. There was a reason why Benny only gave his work number to Collins, and this reminds him of it.

He picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Benny," Collins says, and sighs.

"Collins."

"Mimi's—"

"I know," Benny interrupts. He adjusts his tie, scoots his chair up closer, and picks up his pen. Ball-point, black ink, even has the meager rewards of his meager life inscribed on it:_ Benjamin Coffin III, Associate District Manager of Grey Real Estate Operations. _

"No," Collins sighs again. "It was pneumonia," He says.

Benny's breath catches; he swallows and forces himself to breathe again. He used to tell her, warn her, about walking in the rain, even if her grandmother had said that it was good luck.

"That's…that's too bad," He says, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Just thought you should know."

"Thanks," Benny tells him, and he knows that Collins knows that he means it. "Thanks."

From across the office, a door opens, and Benny can hear the loud voice of his employer and the footsteps of potential contractors behind him. "-And I've got to introduce you to my son-in-law. He's a fine man, believe me. The Most Motivated Young Man You'll Ever Meet, and don't I know that there are a lot of young men in New York."

"Look, I gotta go—"

"Yeah," Collins says, sounding anything but regretful.

"I'll see you Sunday," Benny says assuredly, though Collins doesn't need any assurance. "Um, hey. Tell Roger and Mark that I'll, you know, pay for the funeral. Just bill everything to me."

"Yeah," Collins sighs once more, and Benny can practically picture him crossing one arm and raising the other to his chin thoughtfully. "Bye." He hangs up without waiting for Benny to say the same.

* * *

Benny may not be very honest, but at least he knows the truth (even if he's the only person he can ever admit it to). He works with people, so he has to know something about people in general, and especially about himself. 

He knew from the beginning that she wasn't perfect for him. He knew from the beginning that she wasn't perfect at all. Too wild, really. Too young, too stubborn. Too confident, too independent. Too much of everything.

On the way home from work on Friday, he thinks about Collins, and the phone call from two days ago. He remembers the way that he and Collins used to sit on the roof every other Friday, back when he lived at the loft. He remembers the night that Collins had told him that, "_There's nothing wrong with being a doctor, or a lawyer, or a suit. There's nothing wrong with any job you choose, as long as you don't lose your soul in the process_."

Collins hadn't known that losing your soul was actually a slow process, something that took place over days and nights and weeks and months and years. Piece by piece fell away without your knowing, until you were left clutching the last precious chunk, searching uselessly everywhere for the pieces that had disappeared forevers ago.

Benny would know.

On his way home from work on Friday, Benny decides that repetition can make things truer, and that love can be determined by how much a person changes your life. He punctuates every correct thought with a step on the sidewalk. His life has changed immeasurably since he met Alison. _Step._ He went from the loft to a near-mansion, from poor to rich, all because of Alison. _Step. _With Mimi, nothing had changed. _Step._ Nothing tangible, and maybe that was all that had counted. _Step._

Repetition makes things truer. _Step. _ He never loved her. He never loved her.

Benny stops walking, lets the people on the street brush by him, all huddled over and eager to return to their homes, to their lives, to their stories.

He's not going to the funeral on Sunday.

Benny resumes walking home.

* * *

Sometimes, he really hadn't liked her too much. He knew that for a fact. There was something about her personality that jarred with his, something about the way she smiled that both intrigued and annoyed him. He knew that she had felt the same way about him. She had wanted him to be perfect, wanted things to be perfect, and for her, anything could be perfect given the right amount of persistence. Benny hadn't believed that. He'd always been too realistic for his own good. 

He tells all this "to" Alison on Saturday night, (he needs to say it out loud) when she's watching her favorite show and he knows she's not listening to him at all. Falling in love with Alison was the smartest decision that he ever made. He's content knowing that he and Alison will never divorce. They're both too complacent for that, and both aware of just how good they have it with each other. They'll both treat each other right, most of the time.

Disagreements with Alison are rare and trivial. The last one had been two months ago, when he had wanted to go out for dinner on a Saturday night and she had wanted to stay in. They had argued softly; he had cupped her face in his palms and she had stroked his cheek with her hand, her wedding ring cool against his face. He had shaken his head; she had kissed him gently on the mouth, soft lips against his. They had stayed in and watched a movie, and gone out to eat the next night.

In short, Alison is the perfect solution.

During their seven months of hell and bliss, Mimi fought with him. She obstinately irritated and yelled at him, angry that he never understood, like the time that she had slapped him across the face after he quietly insinuated that maybe it was her own fault, and that maybe she was addicted.

Benny hasn't yet figured out why Mimi's imperfections can be compared to the things that remind him that Alison is perfect.

"Alison," He finally says, in a tone that prompts her to switch her gaze from the television to his eyes.

"Mmm?"

"Mind if I go to church with you tomorrow?"

She is slightly puzzled, and is torn between asking for more information and turning back to the TV. "Of course not. You know that."

"Yeah. Just checking."

She looks at him again, decides that she will ask him about it later, and her eyes slide back to greet the television screen.

Benny sits at the table and stares out the window. He notes distantly that he doesn't feel anything at all.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Benny sits next to Alison in the pew. Behind him, a child is whimpering. Rows and rows of heads stretch on in front of him, becoming smaller with each successive line. Beside him, Alison hums along to the hymn, and reaches her hand over to cover his. The church feels dark, but the stained glass windows seem to glow, made beautiful by filtering strands of light. 

He is _here _but not _there, _where he should be. He has tried to atone for his failure by coming here, but he knows that being here does not erase the fact that he should be _there, _at the funeral. Her funeral.

Monday evening, after work, Benny goes to her grave.

He wishes that he could say that it wasn't fair that she died so young and so alive, but what kills him is the knowledge that it _is _fair. She did this to herself—the smack, the smoking, the love of danger and risks and the way she poured herself into everything. She paid for the mistakes she made.

What kills him, as he walks towards it (he knows it will be next to Angel's), eyes fixed carefully on the grass below his feet, is that he's not just going to _a _grave, or _the _grave—it's _her_ grave. It makes it sound as if it's been ominously waiting, beckoning with hands stretched out, for her to lie in it.

He's managed to stay under control, to keep his emotions at bay for the past week. But when he finally looks up, he is confronted with truth.

Roger has his back to him, and all Benny can see are the tips of two roses—one red, one white—in his hands. His shoulders shake every few seconds. It's the perfect set-up, Benny knows—her grave, Roger in front of it, and Benny behind him, separated from her, as he should be.

It occurs to him, then, that if he ever were to write a book about Mimi, he would have to include Roger in it. Roger would probably take up half of Mimi's book, and it wouldn't matter anyway, because right now it feels as if everything Benny wrote would disintegrate into nothing but words, minus meaning. This is the way it's felt since the day she left.

This is why he doesn't like loving people, truly loving them. He is addicted to perfection, even when it means pain for him. Perfection for Mimi was never Benny, and they both always knew it.

It hurts to stand like this. It hurts to love. It hurts to have known her, it hurts to know that he never truly knew her. It hurts that he missed her funeral because he couldn't stand to hear other people reveal how much more she loved them than she loved him. It hurts to stand here, knowing that they missed perfection by a mile and that it's too late, it was always too late.

He loved her. He had loved her so much, and it wasn't enough.

It hurts so much that Benny has to turn and walk away, and it hurts to smile so as he leaves her grave, he cries.


	8. Less Than Ready

**Title:** Less Than Ready**  
Summary**: The end of the world as Roger knows it.**  
Note 1**: This one actually takes place before _Sunday Mornings_ and includes _A Thousand Words_, but it's still definitely the epilogue to this series. I don't know if you've noticed it, but every chapter makes at least one reference to another one. This one has lots of parallels to _A Good Day_, and to a few of the other stories/chapters as well.

**Note 2**: I forgot to post this earlier: Due to a reference to the Oklahoma City bombing that is evident in the musical (in _Over the Moon_, to be exact), the assumption I made is that the events of RENT take place from December 1995 to December 1996. Because of this time frame, this series caters more to the musical, though occasionally it incorporates movie elements.

**Thanks:** To everyone who reviewed. Namely, **aenpaesum**, **em**, **TakeMeOrLeaveMe2010**, **Evangeline Daae**, **missxflawless**,** sundrynotes**, **Bound Dragon**, **LifeIsTooQuick**, and of course, **Korean Pearl**.

* * *

**  
**

He spends the first week fighting with her.

It starts when Mimi coughs. Roger's sitting on the couch, playing with strings on his guitar that are wound up just as tightly as he is. Mimi's in the kitchen, getting herself a glass of water. Mark and Collins are at their respective jobs, so the loft contains just Mimi, Roger, and the chasm between them.

It's not the first time Mimi's coughed. It's not even the second or third time. It's the five millionth time that she's coughed this afternoon, and the ten millionth time she's coughed this week. Roger's wanted to say something about it since the first time he heard one of the chest-rattling coughs, but every time he starts to speak Mimi cuts him off.

Not this time.

He sets down the guitar and stands, and Mimi sighs because they both know what he's going to say. It starts with "I think" and it ends with "hospital," but before Roger can get the words out Mimi is cutting him off _again._

"No, Roger," She says, and puts her glass in the sink as if to say _that's final_. She should know by now that he's just as stubborn as she is.

She's looking to the side of him distractedly, as if there's something more interesting in the room that she'd rather focus on. When she does speak, it's with the monotony that comes with repeating the same declaration over and over. "I'm not going to the hospital. I don't want to spend the rest of my life lying in a bed. I want to live."

Roger feels like they're speaking two different languages. He gets up from the couch and tries not to scream in frustration. "That's why you need to go there!"

"People _die_ in hospitals."

"And what you're doing here is so much better?" Roger replies hotly. Has she not looked into a mirror lately? Does she just not see the pallor of her skin? Has she not noticed the way that she has to lean on the metal table because she can't support her own weight? Have the coughing fits escaped her? "Forget it," He says, fuming. He climbs back onto the couch, picks up his guitar resolutely, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "You would know all about ways to kill yourself, anyway."

It's the wrong thing to say, and he realizes it just a millisecond too late.

Mimi's voice sounds dangerous. "I _told _you that I was through with the smack."

Roger sets his guitar aside again, not nearly so gently this time, and rises once more to face her. "What do you want me to do? You're killing yourself, Mimi!"

She makes her way over to him slowly and angrily. "Oh, and you're making things so much better!"

"I'm trying to help!" And he is. He really is, no matter how much Mimi acts like he's nagging her.

"You're not!" She yells at him. Her throat is raw from all the coughing, so he's taken aback by the power in her voice. "Just let me do things my way!"

He's about to bellow back at her when something in him snaps. He sighs wearily, and in the silence Mimi throws him a suspicious look. He never gives up this easily. But right now he can't help it. He cares more about Mimi than about being the first one to slam the door and storm away.

"Go to the hospital," He says quietly. "_Please_." Roger has always depended on people for everything. Mimi's so independent that it hurts.

Mimi doesn't reply. She just sits down on the couch. And coughs, long and loudly and so much so that when it's over, she's gasping for breath and leaning on the cushion for support.

The next morning, she checks herself into the hospital.

* * *

He spends the second week not talking to her. 

He takes a seat to the left of her bed. He gets there as soon as visiting hours begin and leaves even after they've passed. Every time Mimi falls asleep, he's the last thing she sees.

The others come and visit. Mark comes the first day, smiling a little lopsidedly and not carrying his camera. He apologizes for not bringing flowers, and Mimi rolls her eyes and tells him that she'd rather have him here anyway. Mark pats Roger on the shoulder and makes his way over to Mimi's other side. They talk a lot, and Roger wonders why it surprises him that Mark and Mimi are friends. He doesn't understand everything they talk about, and he tunes in and out, only pausing in time to catch small statements about French fries and other things that don't make sense to him.

Joanne comes during one of her lunch breaks, looking ticked off about her job, though the irritated expression melts away as soon as she steps through the door. She hands Roger a cup of coffee and gives Mimi a cup of hot chocolate, her favorite. She has nothing for herself, but says that her hands will be occupied anyway. When Mimi asks what she means, Joanne only grins and pulls out a vibrantly red shade of nail polish that makes Mimi nearly squeal. Joanne paints Mimi's fingernails and Mimi makes her talk about what's bothering her at work. Roger stares out the window, not liking the nail-painting parallel.

Collins comes over after class. He swings through the door with his characteristic smile on his face. He ruffles Roger's hair as he sits on the bed beside Mimi. He asks her if there are any books that she wants him to bring while she's here on vacation and she tells him that this isn't her typical sort of vacation, but anything he brings is fine. He tells her stories about kids in his class and the ridiculous things they've been writing on papers and assignments. Roger doesn't pay much attention, but when he does listen, he doesn't find the humor and fails to see why Mimi laughs so hard.

Maureen comes late, after Collins has left and when Mark and Joanne have returned. She comes bearing pictures that Mimi later props beside her on the table. After they admire the pictures, Maureen tells them about her adventure in getting them. Roger leaves after the pictures are shown, to get a dose of fresh air, and he returns in time to witness Maureen acting sillier than usual, hamming things up and being as egocentric as Roger has ever seen her. Mark makes dry, sarcastic remarks and Joanne scolds harmlessly, and finally Roger understands that everyone's trying their best to distract Mimi from her life, or what's left of it.

They all depart eventually, leaving Roger alone with Mimi in the room. Maureen and Joanne exchange glances over his head, and Mark sends him a worried look. Roger ignores them all.

Collins stops back in the next day, bringing a meal for Roger that he hadn't even thought to eat. While Mimi pulls faces at the hospital food, Collins pulls Roger out into the hallway and finally says what's been on everyone's mind.

"Stop sulking," he orders. "There's not enough time left for you to be mad at her."

"I'm not mad," Roger tells him, and he really isn't. In fact, he's surprised that Collins even thinks he is. Yes, he and Mimi had been fighting a lot the week before, but he thought everyone knew that Roger's brand of anger was revealed in a refusal to be around the person he was angry with, not a constant presence by the individual's side.

Collins looks confused. "Then why aren't you two," He points one finger at Roger and the other in Mimi's direction, "speaking?"

Roger shrugs and answers as honestly as possible. "I can't find anything to say."

Collins just looks at him, and Roger looks right back. Finally, Collins sighs. He doesn't say anything more to Roger, but he pops back into the room to tell Mimi good-bye and that he'll see her soon.

Mimi stirs in the bed, the sheets rustling against each other. The sun is setting, and the room is enveloped in fleeting rays of orange-pink sunlight that fall on Mimi's face.

Roger leans forward and reaches over to hold her hand. It feels weak and tired, but in the way that she squeezes back he can detect some of her undeniable Mimi determination. He loosens his grip and uses his other hand to trace the lines on her hand.

Lifelines, is what they're called.

He presses his palm to hers, and watches as their lifelines collide.

* * *

He spends the third week talking to her. 

He's not sure exactly what it is that changes, but he has a feeling that it can be mostly summed up in the word _desperation._

So he talks, and he talks more to her than he thinks he's ever spoken to anyone else in his life. He doesn't let go of her hand, and he only looks away from her eyes when the moment is too intense for him to bear.

The others are surprised. Mark raises his eyebrows when he walks into the room and sees Roger leaning on the bed, telling her about the time that he got suspended in school for continuing—not starting—a fight. When Maureen comes in and hears his voice she exclaims, "Holy…" and trails off at the sharp look that Joanne gives her. Collins just stands in the doorway, something close to comprehension dawning on his face.

Roger talks because he doesn't have time (because _she_ doesn't have time), and he's suddenly found that there is much left to say. He talks about growing up in Jersey with a dad who was only his half of the time. He talks about his drug days with April, and about how he never really loved her, but he wouldn't have known that it not for Mimi. He talks about how he feels like he's never been able to make anything up to anyone, about how he's indebted to so many people. When he says this, Mark starts to speak up, about to tell him how _that's not true, _but Mimi silences him with a look.

He keeps talking, and he doesn't care that the others hear. He tells her that he never lost his faith, just misplaced it, and about how he's still sorry about the time he wasted in Santa Fe. He talks about the first time he played the guitar, and how about once in awhile he feels like playing the piano, even though he hated taking lessons as a kid.

He talks until his mouth hurts, ignoring the astonished expressions that the others have. He knows that Mark must be itching to film this. When he's telling Mimi about how she changed things in his life he sees Joanne get up and leave the room, looking like she's on the brink of tears. He doesn't focus on it, just sticks singularly to his task at hand.

His only encouragement is the understanding in Mimi's eyes when he talks continuously, the way she squeezes his hand after he chokes something out, the simple way she says, "Mm-hmm," and "I know, baby," in between her coughs. The room buzzes and beeps, Mimi moves subtly on the bed, and the sound of Roger's voice wards off the feeling of despair, at least temporarily.

* * *

The last week is Mimi's. 

Roger knows the end is coming as soon as she opens her eyes. There's something weak in them, and Mimi's eyes have always revealed more than she would have liked. He wonders if the others can see it, and he doesn't know if he hopes that they can or that they can't.

She spends the first day of the week talking. Her voice is croaky and has lost its melodic twinge, but Roger still appreciates the sound of it. She speaks clearly as she talks about her weeks in New York. She talks about stripping and liking the feeling of the spotlight even while hating the job. She talks about Angel, about how she used to visit her apartment whenever she wanted and they would have so much fun together. She talks about her mother, who she says that she wants Roger to call, and about her deceased brother Carlos, and her younger sister, Isabella. She tells him about the first time she saw him, about how she knew that they would know each other someday.

Roger sits on the edge of his seat, soaking up every word that comes out of her mouth like it's an oasis in a desert. The others do the same, not even pretending to hide their curiosity. Collins sits in a chair on her other side and Mark pulls one up beside Roger. Maureen and Joanne lean against each other at the foot of the bed. All eyes are trained on Mimi, giving her the attention she's always had.

But when Roger takes a moment to look around at everyone's faces, he sees that this is more than just curiosity. There is respect in Joanne's face, and Mark is listening raptly, visibly engrossed. Maureen looks at Mimi with something akin to admiration, and Collins—yes, Collins understands.

Roger thinks that Mimi must be glad to see that there is no pity staring back at her.

The second day, Mimi doesn't speak at all; it hurts her throat too much. They can all see that things are drawing to a close. Mimi is getting weaker, and her hand feels limp in his. The beeping on the monitor by the bed is slower than it once was, and Roger feels number than he did before.

When the others arrive, they observe the silence of the room and immediately get it. Mark gives Roger a sideways look, but Roger stays seated with his head bowed. Mimi's voice is broken, so she can't talk, but Roger can't speak because his heart is breaking.

The others all size up the situation at the same time, but it's Maureen who acts first. She sits on the edge of Mimi's bed, by her foot, and says brightly, "I remember the first time I met you, Mimi. It was after my protest, remember?" She laughs as she begins to recall the memory. "I had no idea _who_ you were, but I remember liking the coat you were wearing."

Mark catches on. "And we all met at The Life after that, this big group of us. And Benny was there, remember?" He snickers a little. "Maureen mooned him."

"Well, you can't really talk, Mark," Joanne joins in. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who started dancing on the tables."

And Collins laughs. "Please, girl. Like you weren't dancing by the end of the night."

Roger knows what they're doing, and he wishes he could find a way to let them know how grateful he is. He knows Mimi feels the same, because she squeezes his hand with as much strength as she can muster.

When he looks at her, he's surprised to find that there's water in her eyes. Mimi doesn't cry often.

The others pretend not to notice.

The rest of the day passes with Mark, Maureen, Joanne, and Collins trading stories and finishing each other's sentences. Joanne reprimands Maureen when she gets too bawdy, and Mark and Collins nudge each other as they remember stories from when they all lived back in the loft. They laugh a lot, Maureen even snorting once or twice, and Mimi and Roger even manage to crack smiles, Roger's much more feeble that Mimi's.

Mimi falls asleep in the evening and they all prepare to leave. Roger gets up and follows them out into the hallway, searching for words that can match up to his gratitude.

"I…" He starts, not sure what he's trying to say. Collins stops him before he can even try.

"It's nothing, man." He claps Roger on the back, and then Roger begins to see the worry that's been lurking at his eyes all day. "Just make sure she's ready to listen to more when we come back tomorrow, alright?"

_Make sure she's still alive._

Roger nods even though he knows he can't guarantee that at all, and when Collins reaches over to hug him, he can't contain his tears. He feels stupid, standing in the hallway, clutching Collins and bawling like a baby, but he feels a hand on his shoulder and another rubbing his back and he can admit that it's comforting to know that the others are here to support him through this.

The only problem is that it's not really Roger who's going through it at all.

* * *

At night, when it's only the two of them in the room, Mimi wakes up. Roger starts; he's been watching her and is surprised to see the sudden flash of her eyes in the dimly-lit room. 

"Roger," She whispers very insistently, and Roger can see that it's hurting her and he wants to tell her to stop, she doesn't need to say anything, but he knows it wouldn't deter her.

"I love you," is what she says. She settles back into the sheets and a small smile slips onto her face, and then she murmurs something.

Roger leans forward and hears that she's saying, "It's a good day."

He's so surprised and taken aback that he doesn't notice as Mimi falls back into sleep easily. She's fading, and yet she still has a spark of _something _in her.

When the night passes, he wonders if it was even real.

* * *

The last day, Mimi fights. She fights for every breath, for every rattled intake and outtake of air that her body will allow her to win. Doctors hover over her, speaking in medical jargon, and Roger stands at her side, scared and unsure of what to do. 

This is Mimi at her best and at her worst. Pale, sweaty and clammy, hair rough and tangled, hooked up to machines. Those haunting brown eyes are closed, and she's struggling and the machines are beeping erratically. A nurse runs in, followed by another doctor, and they yell things that Roger still doesn't understand.

One of them turns to him and tells him that he needs to move out of the way just as Collins, Mark, Joanne, and Maureen come filing in, and before Roger can refuse or struggle, one of them has pulled him out of the room with them.

He's numb and terrified at the same time, and words fall from his lips that don't make sense: "Mimi—why—but what—she _can't—_"

"Shh," Maureen tells him, and he's leaning against the wall and she's stroking his face. "It's okay, Rog."

It's not; that much is obvious. He pulls away from her, a silent warning that none of them should touch him, _not now_, because he needs his Mimi.

And that's the truth, plain and simple: He needs Mimi. He's needed her since before he even met her, since before she tumbled into his life. She's kept him going, she's reminded him of reasons to live, and she's been the light of his life just by being who she is.

He's back at the doorway before anyone can stop him, and he sees that Mimi's been switched over to a different bed—does that mean she's going to the emergency room? But he notices that something's wrong. There's no beeping, and the doctors are pulling away with hopelessness on their faces, and Mimi's lying so _still…_

"Call her," a nurse says quietly, and looks at an old doctor who has a look on his face that says _I've seen it all. _

The doctor sighs. "Six forty-six."

Roger turns away from the doorway and into the horrified eyes of his friends. They're all shocked, he realizes. He also realizes with a sad certainty that he probably is, too.

At the end of the hallway, there's a window. And if Roger squints, he can see the sun rising, slow and certain. New York is continuing, oblivious to what happens inside the hospital. Outside someone is getting married, and someone else is being born, and another person is celebrating a birthday, and a couple is celebrating an anniversary.

And inside, Mimi is dead.

Mark reaches Roger first, and though his mouth moves, no words come out. But it's okay, Roger thinks. Or rather, it's not, but it _will _be.

Mimi was always a lot wiser than him. Even in the throes of sleep and halfway in the clutch of death, she understood more than him.

"Are…are you okay?" Mark asks gingerly, and then winces as if he knows it was a stupid question.

No, he's not. But he's known Mimi, and he's loved her. He'll grieve, and he's Roger, so he'll grieve for a long time. But he's known and loved Mimi, and that has to count for something.

So before everything falls apart, before it takes the combined efforts of Mark and Collins and Maureen and Joanne to prop him up and to keep him from running away from everything, Roger decides to make a last grab for hope. Even if he doesn't believe it, even if he's less than ready for it, he thinks that somewhere, Mimi will be smiling. Or laughing at him. Or fighting, or talking, or not talking, but at least _living_. And if he focuses on what she's doing in _that_ place, he doesn't have to think about what she's doing in _this_ place.

"Yeah," He tells Mark, and Mark is shocked and also very good at hiding it. Roger nearly laughs, because he knows if that surprised Mark, then this final tribute to Mimi, to her uncanny ability to find something she loved in everything, might just knock him off his feet. Hell, it might just knock Roger off his, too, because he's smiling and about to start crying as soon as he says it. "It's gonna be a good day."


End file.
